


Flowers Are Easy

by glinda4thegood



Category: Lone Gunmen, The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Monster of the Week, Road Trip, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-20
Updated: 2011-03-20
Packaged: 2017-10-17 03:52:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/172617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glinda4thegood/pseuds/glinda4thegood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mulder asks Frohike to get an endangered witness out of D.C. until the trial. The road trip leads from one X-File to another, and eventually forges a connection between a young woman's past and present.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**July 4, 1996**

"I was roasting weiners and drinking beer. What's so important I had to put on shoes and drive over?" Mulder scanned Skinner's desk, noting the pile of paperwork, the smudged and bedribbled coffee cup, and the A.D.'s rolled up sleeves and limp collar. "Did you spend the night here?"

"You weren't roasting weiners." Skinner yawned and flexed his shoulders in a stretch. "Drinking beer, that I'll believe. I've got a problem and I'd appreciate your input."

"On the Fourth of July? You light the end with the fuse."

"I've got two agents in the hospital. Krause and Finelli. Safehouse number two went up in flames early this morning."

"Bree Webster?" Mulder sprawled into a chair. "Is she okay? I told you . . ."

"You told me what you thought the risks were in keeping her safe until the trial. You never got around to telling me how to circumvent those risks." Skinner stabbed his pen at a piece of paper, unhappily, as if thinking of stabbing something -- or someone -- else.

Someone like the Most Holy Reverend Peter Joseph Abernethy, Mulder thought sympathetically. The Rev's saintly, austere countenance and brimstone-filled eyes had darkened his dreams more than once in the days after the cult's aborted attempt to 'ascend' half of its members to another plane of existence.

"She got out physically unharmed."

"You didn't want to hear it," Mulder said, aware he was using his _I-warned-you-sucker_ tone of voice. "You thought once the Reverend was behind bars, and you hid Bree away from any members of his congregation still kicking around, justice would move down its well-oiled track."

"Give me a break." Skinner ground the point of his pen into the paper. "I'd kill for a beer and a weiner right now, Mulder. But I've got a nearly hysterical witness who's seen five agents injured in the last two weeks, along with one car crash, two sniper attempts, an explosion and fire in the supposedly safe havens we provided for her. She drove herself back here, Mulder, didn't even try to go to the nearest police station, or wait for other agents to take control of the scene. She showed up downstairs, begging to be taken somewhere safe. She asked for you."

"And you didn't call me?" Mulder abandoned his sloppy posture and leaned forward toward Skinner, angrily. "You should have."

Skinner held up his hands in a calming gesture. "I had her sedated. I wanted a clear report on what went down before I called you."

"Where is she now? Being strangled in some hospital bed?"

"I kept her with me. She's trying to sleep in Kimberly's supply closet. You saw Agent Thompson at the desk when you came in? She's keeping watch." Skinner stood and walked to the door, cracked it open and nodded at what he saw in the reception area. "Her testimony is crucial, Mulder. She's the one who tipped us off, she's the only one we've been able to find who was directly involved, and will speak against what Abernethy was doing. We have to get her to the trial."

"I told you to get her out of the area. She was a member of his congregation, living in the same house with him for over a year. Bree seems to have a natural immunity to the Rev's power of persuasion, but he may still be able to find her by using his congregation. Bree told me -- _he finds the ones who get taken away by family or friends. He casts his eyes down and prays, then sends the Arm of God Squad out with directions on how and where to retrieve the lost lamb._ '"

Mulder stood and faced Skinner. "I still find the composition of the Rev's congregation interesting. He was charismatic and ambitious enough to have drawn in a much larger audience, but all his followers lived within a few blocks of the chapel. It's a good place to start looking for whoever's responsible for the attacks."

"The Rock of Ages Chapel." Skinner made a face. "They take turns parking outside the jail, and hold prayer meetings. We've tried to keep track of the ones who participate, but apart from Abernethy there doesn't seem to be a structure of authority. You still believe he's got some kind of ability to dominate minds?"

"Minds he's in constant contact with, over time." Mulder nodded. "You're changing his guards every day, and not letting anyone have extended contact with him?"

"Yes. I have to say, his lawyer's getting weird," Skinner said. "It's one of the reasons I tend to believe some of your theories on this case. If what you say is true, how can we seat jurors for a trial like this? Aren't we facing another Modell situation?"

"Weird or not, I doubt if any lawyer would risk putting Abernethy on the stand. I'm still working to understand how he uses his power. I think his preaching, his speech, provides the exposure. Abernethy isn't a Pusher . . . he's more like a Tuner. He doesn't ride rough shod over the will of another person. He suggests and influences until his listeners eagerly accept whatever he says as gospel." Mulder walked to the door and looked toward the reception desk. "You need to put more physical distance between Bree and the chapel. How many days until you need her here for the trial?"

"Ten. What do I have to do to see that she makes it?"

"I've got an idea. Get together all the travel cash you can find in the next half hour. I'll talk to Bree." Mulder grinned at Skinner as he stepped out of the office. "Get moving. We have to hurry."

"You expect someone will try again?" Skinner asked.

"Maybe. But I have to pick Scully up in a couple of hours. We're going to watch the fireworks. Don't you have plans for tonight? Beer and weiners galore, followed by rockets red glare shouldn't be missed by anyone -- especially government employees." Mulder saw Skinner look at the pile of work on his desk, open a drawer and brush it out of sight.

"How much cash?"

"Give till it hurts," Mulder advised. "My arrangements may turn out to be costly."

 

 **A DINGY ALLEY SANDWICHED BETWEEN GRIMY BUILDINGS, 4 p.m.**

"Charred meat is highly carcinogenic."

In the periphery of his vision Frohike could see Byers hovering behind him as he turned the kielbasa, onions and peppers on the grill. He shut his eyes and inhaled the sweet and spicy aromas, ignoring Byers' bitching and Langly's repeated demand for more sparklers.

"Drink a beer and shut up. I never burn the 'basa," Frohike said. He flipped a piece of pepper at Byers. It flew past his ear and landed next to Langly on the blankets spread behind the van.

"Keep those things away from me. I get gas." Langly snapped the piece of pepper off the blanket, back in Frohike's general direction.

"You get gas anyway." Tubes of tin foil on the side of the grill were steaming nicely. Frohike rolled one open and peeked inside. "I made stuffed mushroom caps and tomatoes for you, Byers. We've got potato salad, watermelon and ice cream. If you want to steer clear of the carcinogenic meat, you won't hurt my feelings, and I'm sure you won't go hungry."

"Or thirsty!"

"Yo! More beer. Good work." Frohike saluted the twins with his fork. Kimmy and Jimmy came down the alley, each carrying two six-packs. "Is anybody else attending our soiree?"

"Elron said he'd drop by later," Kimmy said, "with a couple of his elf maidens."

"Oh yes," Langly rolled onto his back and raised his hands toward the sky. "When was the last time we had women at one of our parties?"

"If you count Helga the Horrible and the llama debacle --" Frohike heard Byers groan. The llama had deposited enough hair to spin a sweater's worth of yarn on the couch, and taught Frohike a valuable lesson about picking up women at craft shows. He let the memory go when he saw Mulder's car turn into the alley. "Mulder's here! Maybe he's got Scully with him."

No such luck. Frohike watched Mulder get out of the car and walk toward them, alone. The other person in the car, sitting in the front seat, wasn't Scully -- unless Scully had started wearing a babuska, raincoat and sunglasses in the middle of summer.

"Happy birthday America," Mulder fished over Frohike's shoulder and snagged a piece of pepper. "I wish I could stay. You've got a nice set up going here. Where's the TV?"

"Break the habit. We're having a good old-fashion American picnic. Beer and 'basa, maybe a little AM radio. Why can't you stay?" Frohike swatted his hand away with the fork. "Plenty of food and beer, Mulder. Bring your friend."

"I've got a date with a firecracker, or I'd be happy to accept." Mulder stole another pepper. "Hey, Byers, take over here. I need to talk to Frohike."

"Don't roll them to the side, or they won't cook properly," Frohike warned, reluctantly turning the grill over to Byers. "You think carcinogens are bad -- we won't even talk about what you can catch from raw meat."

Mulder waved at Langly and the twins. "I need a favor," he said quietly. "I want you to meet someone."

Frohike followed Mulder to the car warily. Favors to Mulder were usually requests resulting in complex, dangerous, interesting, weird, unexplainable and downright uncomfortable Kodak moments. "Who's the chickadee?"

"Bree." Mulder opened the passenger's side door. "Get out for a minute. We're going to take a walk down the alley, and I'm going to introduce you to a friend of mine."

She scanned the area quickly as she stepped into the alley; roof line, buildings, front and back. Worried, Frohike thought. The only part of her face visible under the scarf and glasses was her lower cheeks, mouth and chin. There were tight lines at the corners of her mouth. She'd been doing a lot of reverse smiling lately, but Frohike thought she was probably youngish, late twenties, early thirties.

Mulder took her arm, and led them several yards from the car. "Bree Webster -- Melvin Frohike. I trust him, Bree. I'd trust him with Scully."

"Whoa." Frohike held up his hand. "Remember to say that the next time your lovely partner is with you."

"He looks like he'd take the money and park us in an adult theater for the next ten days, Fox," she said, lowering her glasses.

Nice green eyes, and his estimate of her age lowered a hair. Frohike wasn't sure if he should laugh or protest. "She's a good judge of character, Mulder. What's this about money?"

"Bree has to disappear out of the area -- a couple of state's worth -- for the next ten days. I brought travel cash. Traveling with her might be dangerous. She'll tell you about it. This isn't something that can wait, Frohike. You need to hit the road right now." Mulder patted his jacket and found a business card. "Under no circumstance let anyone know where you are. Not Byers and Langly, not me, not anybody. But if you have to call, use this number."

"You're assuming a lot." Frohike took the card. "Her life's in danger? Is she old enough to get into an adult theater?"

"I just dumped one creepy little pervert," Bree said, replacing her glasses, "and you want to send me on a road trip with another one?"

"He's not creepy," Mulder laughed, then sobered. "I truly believe that if you don't put a few hundred miles behind you and DC tonight, she could be dead by morning."

"I can't wait until we eat the 'basa?" Frohike looked back at the group around the grill. The twins had made tiaras out of watermelon rind and were trying to crown each other. "Never mind. Give me ten minutes to pack some stuff."

"Thanks. About transportation?" Mulder looked at the van.

"What's wrong with flying? If you want to get out of town fast."

"No planes." Bree shook her head. "I don't fly. Anywhere."

Frohike shrugged. Langly didn't allow anyone to bounce his image off a satellite, Byers was definitely camera-shy, and he hadn't put his actual weight on a driver's license application in at least 20 years. People had quirks. "I can swing transportation. Not the van, though. The guys wouldn't agree."

"I guess it's too early to give thanks for _that_ narrow escape," Bree said over her shoulder as she walked back to the car, "not knowing what else you might describe as transportation. I can't see myself roaming the country with Bilbo in his hippie bus."

"You're being rude and defensive," Mulder said mildly. "And miscasting to boot. I see Frohike more as Thorin Oakenshield."

Frohike ignored them both. "What am I allowed to tell Byers and Langly? Bye, see you in two weeks? They won't like it. They'll have to pick up the slack on the writing."

"I'll talk to them," Mulder said. "You go pack."

 

It took Frohike 20 minutes to make a phone call and get everything he needed into his bag. He anticipated Byers and Langly would be waiting for him outside, arguing. They were.

"If Mulder says it's necessary, it's necessary," Byers looked as if he wanted to crown Langly, and not with a watermelon rind. "I'm no happier . . ."

"We've planned for unexpected absences." Frohike shifted his bag onto his back. "You've got canned columns, pick one. You'll barely miss me."

"Hah. More like you'll barely miss us," Langly snarled. "Mulder will only tell us he needs your help. I'd like a little more than that. What does the woman have to do with it?"

"I can't say. Because I don't know yet," Frohike said. "Mulder says I can't contact you. I'll find out what's going on, then make a decision on that."

"Ten days. That's a long time not to know how you are," Byers said quietly. "This is a Mulder-operation. What are the chances you're _not_ going to need our help at some point?"

"What are the chances I won't call right away if I do?" Frohike touched Byers' arm as he walked past. "It'll be okay. See you in ten days."

"Great kielbasa, Frohike. Where ya going?" Kimmy asked around a mouthful.

Frohike glanced at the grill regretfully. "It's a family thing, Kimmy."

It wasn't just a convenient excuse, it _was_ a family thing, Frohike realized as he got in the back seat of Mulder's car and they drove out of the alley into the street. Mulder was family and he'd asked for help. If there'd been an alternative, he wouldn't have shown up on their doorstep. Probably.

"Where to?" Mulder asked. "Make it snappy. I need to get a good spot for the fireworks."

"We won't keep you too long." Frohike didn't try to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. "Take a right at the light. Drive eight blocks and take a left."

"Okay." Mulder hummed as he drove. It sounded like _Happy Birthday_ , Frohike decided after listening carefully. Bree's head was turned. She appeared to be looking out the window.

"You don't have anything else to tell me about her? You trust her to tell me everything I need to know to keep us both safe?"

Bree's back stiffened and she said something under her breath that Frohike was pretty sure started with 'mother.' Surly, Frohike diagnosed, and more on edge than she wanted them to know.

"She'll be straight with you, Frohike. Bree knows what needs to be done, and when she needs to be back. I told her you wouldn't have a problem taking directions from a woman." Mulder grinned at him in the mirror.

"And he assured me that extended into areas beyond _Get the hell out of here_ , and _Don't touch me_ ," Bree said sharply. "Fox says you've got a brain, and you're not afraid to use it."

"Aw shucks." Frohike repressed the desire to cuff the side of Mulder's head. "I've got feet, too."

"I can go by myself. If you want to walk, pops, do it now."

"Pull over." Frohike pointed past Mulder's shoulder at a row of warehouses. He wasn't particularly bothered by Bree's sharpness. She reminded him of Langly. "Does she have any luggage? And where's the money?"

Mulder opened the glove compartment. "She's only got what she's wearing. You'll have to buy her what she needs, but get out of town first." He handed Frohike a fat brown envelope. "I know I don't have to tell you not to use plastic for anything."

"See you in ten." Frohike opened his door. "Are you coming, Ms. Webster?"

"After you, Mr. Frohike."

They stood on the sidewalk in silence and watched Mulder drive away. Frohike picked up his bag and started walking as soon as the car disappeared. Bree fell into step beside him without a question, her hands thrust hard into the pockets of the raincoat. When they reached the third warehouse, Frohike looked up and down the street, then opened the battered door marked _ntranc_.

"There's a car stored back here," he said as they walked down the dingy hallway. "Belongs to a friend."

The door to the storage bay was open. "Sandy?" Frohike paused in the doorway, holding Bree back with a cautioning gesture.

Nobody answered.

"Come on. That's the Orc. Our wheels." Frohike walked over and patted the matt grey finish. "Like Sandy says -- primed and ready to go." There was a piece of paper under the wipers. The keys dangled from the ignition. Frohike pulled out the note and started reading.

"As long as it runs," Bree said dubiously. "Why do you call it the Orc? Too much Tolkien going on around here."

"Off Road Car," Frohike said, choosing the most acceptable of two explanations of the acronym.

"What does the note say?"

"Good luck and don't wreck her. You got oil. You got gas. Ha. Ha." Frohike opened the hatch and stowed his bag inside. "Sandy used to take Orc on road rallies. That HOV6 on her tail means she's got a sweet little engine, as fast as we'll need."

"So show me." Bree got into the car.

We'll have a talk later, Frohike promised himself. First to get out of the city. He found the control to the back entrance and hit the green button. The thing began to slide upwards with a shrieking cacophony of unoiled metal parts grating against each other.

The Chevy fired up with the first turn of the key, rumbling under their feet like a big cat getting a chin rub. Frohike backed out into the alley, then ran inside to hit the red button and slide back under the closing door.

"Where are we going?" He fastened his seat belt, adjusted the seat and rear view mirror, then turned the air conditioning on to its lowest setting.

"Tonight -- west." Bree sat straight and unrelaxed. She was wearing canvas slippers on her feet, Frohike realized for the first time, and baggy sweats under the light cotton raincoat.

"Okay. West." The Orc's gas tank was full. It had been months since he'd dropped in and helped Sandy escape his wife for a night of pool and beer. Frohike marked in a notation on his mental day planner. As soon as he got back, he owed Sandy a night out.

Traffic was heavy, holiday traffic. People going to and from parties, headed toward water and fireworks. Frohike concentrated on his driving without talking. "Your comment about Tolkien," he said, after a while, "is that where you got your name?"

"It wasn't the cheese, man." Bree snorted, took off her sunglasses, folded them and put them in a raincoat pocket. "Did all your generation read those wretched books?"

"Strange as news from Bree," Frohike watched her from the corner of his eye. "I like all of them, although I'm particularly fond of The Hobbit. You could have done worse, you know."

"Yeah. Goldberry. Or Arwen. I'm kind of surprised mom didn't go with Galadriel. Her expectations were always high." She pulled on the ends of the kerchief and it slipped off her head.

Nice, Frohike thought, but worry thin. Her jaw-length dark brown hair was flattened from the scarf, and stuck up at angles when she ran her fingers through it. "I'm driving west. You want to tell me why?"

"Fox says you read the papers, so you'll have heard of the Most Holy Reverend Peter Joseph Abernethy."

"Of course. The Maryland authorities arrested him a couple of months ago. Drug and gun charges, criminal sexual conduct, attempted manslaughter." Frohike saw her tilt her head back and rest it against the seat.

"Two years ago mother and I moved into a house next door to the Rock of Ages Chapel. We didn't have a lot of money, and the neighborhood was rundown, but pleasant. Mom thought having a chapel next door would be a good thing, kind of a protection. Not that she wanted to attend -- mom didn't like organized religion, for herself. She let me go to Sunday school when I was a kid, so I'd know about Biblical history and theology. She told me I needed to make up my own mind about that stuff." Bree rubbed her eyes and yawned. "I'm going to give you the short version right now. Mom met the Rev and started attending services. Eventually she moved in with him. I have reason to believe they were having sex, although the Rev seems to have a track record of preferring preteens. Mom started changing before we moved. I didn't know who she was after a month in his house."

"You went with her?"

"Yeah. I bitched at first, but I shut up fast when I realized how dangerous he was. The Rev lined his study walls with guns, and served mesc at his communion services. His sermons often ended with harangues about our needing to go to the Rock with him. He preached that we would all ascend from this existence to a better one."

"News coverage said he tried to Jonestown half of his congregation. Were you and your mother involved?" Frohike asked.

"Mom died nine months ago. She had high blood pressure, and a bad heart. One of the Rev's 'leadings' instructed his flock that belief in the Rock made traditional medical treatment unnecessary. The Rev told mom to stop taking her meds. I didn't know that until too late." Bree's face turned hard away toward the side window. "After she died, I went to the FBI. They asked me to stay with the Rev so they could build a case against him. It wasn't as easy as they thought. Even the people in the neighborhood who didn't attend the Chapel wouldn't say squat about the Rev. Fox says he has some kind of mental domination technique."

"You weren't affected?" Frohike could see why Mulder was interested in the case, and her welfare.

"No. I was lucky. I kept my head in the early days, my mouth shut, and played dumb. I was sick and miserable most of the time anyway. I was having migraines so bad I couldn't get out of bed, into the daylight. The Rev must have had enough other women to bother, because he never tried to touch me. If he had I would have blown it, big time."

"He's the creepy little pervert you compared me to?" Frohike was offended. "That was unnecessary. And untrue."

"We'll see." She yawned again. "I like Fox. He's more intuitive than any man I've ever met, and his butt is to die for. He said you're trustworthy, so I accept that. Sorry about the pervert remark, Fro."

"Nice apology," Frohike muttered. "I take it you're the star witness for the prosecution in the Abernethy trial."

"If I live long enough. The Rev has hit-parishioners after my ass. One agent was grazed by a bullet while they were transporting me. The first house they put me in exploded. Last night someone torched the second house we moved to, and two agents were badly burned. I don't know how many others have been injured." Bree scowled at him, maliciously. "Glad you're in the car with me?"

Frohike ignored the remark. "Why did Mulder stress putting distance between you and D.C.? Does he think Abernethy might have some kind of range of control?"

"Or perception, or both. The Rev never got into my head, but I lived with him long enough, and I participated in the services. The hits on the safehouses show he has some way of finding me." Bree shook her head. "Whether it's human collaboration or extrasensory perception, I don't know."

"Good thing I brought the Kevlar vest." Frohike heard her muffled laugh. "Take a nap. You're nearly out of it."

"I'll be okay."

She was scared, and hiding it so well that he nearly hadn't seen how deeply the fear had its hooks into her. Frohike stared straight down the road and tried to keep his voice casual. "Yes, you will be. Close your eyes and take a nap. I'll keep driving. You'll be safe."

"I don't think I can." Her fingers clasped together tightly, her thumbs rubbing together in agitation. "Last time I went to sleep I woke to find my bed on fire."

"Shit." Frohike shook his head. "Then just close your eyes and relax."

"Tell me what you do." Bree settled her head against the seat back, turned so she could watch him drive. "How old are you? Are you now or have you ever been married? Any children? What's your sexual orientation? If you were a smoker, you'd be smoking by now, so I know the answer to that one. But what about recreational stimulants -- pro or con? And speaking of con, have you ever been convicted of a felony?"

"I'm a 30-year-old hairdresser with a penchant for standard French poodles. I prefer alfalfa sprouts and lima beans to liquor, and respect and uphold every law, including the speed limit," Frohike said, glancing at the speedometer needle, which was bouncing back and forth between 85 and 90. He slowed a little. "When we know each other better, you can ask some of those questions again."

"Sarcastic and up front about it. I like that." Bree closed her eyes and sighed. "You're a good driver."

It wasn't going to take long, Frohike thought. A minute or two. She sighed again, and her face relaxed. Not even a minute. She'd been running on fumes. Frohike relaxed back in his seat and enjoyed the feel of the Chevy's engine, and the way the needle kept trying to edge higher. Not the best time to get pulled over, he told himself, easing off the gas pedal again. A shame really, the car was begging to show what she had. He clicked on the cruise control and watched the road unwind, the traffic thin and the scenery change.

Frohike glanced at the dashboard clock. 6:30. His stomach rumbled. He regretted leaving the kielbasa behind. If Langly had spiked Byers' iced tea there was a good chance he'd be entertaining the group in an hour or so with his recitation of _We hold these truths to be self-evident_. Traditional Fourth of July moments always provided reassurance, and fanned his soul's patriotic fires. It would be nice to think 'there's always next year,' but if half of what Mulder brought to them was true that adage was in serious jeopardy. Frohike hoped they'd at least be driving near someplace with fireworks.

In sleep Bree looked young and tired. Frohike wondered what her exact age was; she seemed raw and immature, a combination of post-teen smart mouth and bereaved vulnerability. Frohike had to strain to remember his own mid-to-late 20s. Some of that time had been sucked past the event threshold of recreational medication and hard living. There was a lot more to Bree's story, he was sure. Frohike smelled a scoop coming out of Mulder's favor. It would make his absence more palatable to Byers and Langly if he returned with a great story.

Thinking back on the coverage of Abernethy's arrest, Frohike was struck by how short a time it lasted. Three days worth of outrage, then on to the next sports highlight. Mulder's participation in the case had completely slipped their notice. He'd never mentioned it. Something personal going on? Bree's comment about Mulder's butt . . . and she called him _Fox_. How weird was that? Thinking _really_ hard Frohike couldn't remember any person who knew Mulder -- except his mother -- who called him Fox. His mother and ex-chickadee Diana, Frohike amended, shuddering.

Frohike turned his attention back to the scenery. It was nice to drive for distance. They didn't get to go on the road often enough, less and less the more they relied on electronic means of gathering information. True, there would always be a certain amount of shoe-leather work in their business, but as the net increasingly became the new information landfill, he'd seen them begin to rely on what they could learn sitting in front of a computer screen. It was a dangerous dependency. People were so much more than the content of computer files.

Shadows lengthened as the bright summer afternoon moved leisurely toward dusk. _7:00. 7:30. 8:00._ Frohike checked the clock once in a while, and rummaged around in his past and his present.

July of 1996, or year 7 L.A.M. -- Life After Mulder, Frohike thought affectionately. It was good to be helping the boy with something that didn't have anything to do with ETs or government conspiracies. The air conditioning in their office had been off-again on-again for the past few weeks. Byers and Langly could sweat it out while he drove across country with an agile little car and a pretty woman. Yes, as Mulder-favors went, this was undoubtedly a plum.


	2. Chapter 2

The huge truck stop sign was a beacon that Frohike didn't intend to bypass. It was time for a bathroom break, and his stomach demanded food. As he pulled the Orc into a parking spot beside the building Bree stirred, then came awake with a jerk.

"Hey. We're stopping for a bite. You slept two hours." Frohike pocketed the keys and pulled out Mulder's brown envelope. He looked inside for the first time, and whistled. "I'm going to give you some of this, and stash part of it in my bag." He transferred several hundred dollars worth of mixed bills to his own wallet. "Bathroom, food, gas, and we'll hit the road again."

"Where are we? West Virginia?" Bree put the cash he offered into her coat pocket.

"Yeah. Are you ready?"

Bree found the scarf and tied it behind her ears. "Yes. You locking the car?"

"Always."

There were only two other customers in the restaurant. Frohike chose a booth where he could see the front door and most of the interior and motioned Bree to sit on the side with her back to the door. "Take off the coat," he said quietly, "it looks strange in this weather."

"Okay." Bree pulled her arms out of the sleeves and let the coat slide down behind her.

"Ah . . . maybe the coat was okay."

She wore a tank top under the coat, ribbed peach-colored cotton with braided string where shoulder straps should have been. The skin on her arms and chest looked like it had never seen unfiltered sunlight. Not that she looked pale or unhealthy, Frohike thought, trying to fairly report his impressions to himself. To the contrary, it reminded him of rich farm cream and downy peach skins.

"Are you staring at my nipples?" Bree asked bluntly. "I didn't have time to get dressed last night. I don't wear a bra in bed. No big deal. Literally. Hello -- eyes up here."

"Sorry. I was expecting a t-shirt. You look lovely, and in this weather I've seen ladies wearing less." Frohike tried to recover his dignity. Her breasts were small, but full and nicely shaped. Very nicely shaped. "Menu?" he offered, looking around for the waitress.

They ordered burgers, fries, and coffee, then took turns going to the bathroom. It didn't take long for the food to show up.

Frohike tackled his burger. It was good for a truck stop burger, not too greasy, moist and perfectly grilled. When he looked up to ask Bree how hers was, he saw her methodically layering ketchup over the fries. Her burger was already gone.

"Did you chew?" he asked, reaching for his coffee cup. "Do you want me to find another bottle of ketchup when you empty that one?"

"You want a mustard suppository?" Bree asked, giving the ketchup bottle one last squeeze. "I was hungry. I didn't eat all day. Last night when I got to the Bureau I was kind of loud. Attitudinal Dictator Skinner made them give me a pill, and nearly helped me swallow it. It made me sleepy for a little while, and slow for most of the day." She transferred a french fry to her mouth, encased in a condiment cocoon. "Trust me, when your life is in danger you don't want to be sedated. You want to be wide awake, mean and fast on your feet."

"If you're looking for an argument, you won't get one." The fries disappeared at an astonishing rate. Frohike ate a few of his own before she could get to them. "Fibbies are control freaks. I'm surprised Skinner let you out of the box."

"Mulder fixed it. Interesting dynamic going on there. I can't make up my mind if Skinner's got the hots for Mulder, or his partner. Or both." Bree licked ketchup from her fingers and eyed Frohike's remaining fries.

"Go ahead. Eat them." Frohike scooted out of his seat and grabbed the ketchup bottle from the neighboring table. "Here. I've heard a lot of bizarre theories, but that beats eighty percent of them for sheer creativity. We've profiled Skinner. He goes for leggy blondes with average intelligence. It wouldn't surprise me if he has a soft spot for Agent Scully, she's a hot babe. But Mulder?" Frohike shook his head. "Not in a million years."

"You've profiled him." Bree swirled a fry through the ketchup on her plate, leaving a spiral pattern. "Fox is big on that. I guess you're talking about a different kind of profile than he does. Information versus intuition."

"Hey, what Mulder does may not be a science, but it's a far cry from looking into a crystal ball," Frohike protested. "You should read the write-ups on some of his cases."

"Don't need to." Bree shook her head. "I watched him in action with the Rev. He digs up facts afterwards, to support his intuitive reasoning. Fox told me about the X-Files. I think he's an X-File."

Again, no argument. Byers and Langly would get a kick out of listening to her.

"So, you think Agent Scully is a babe?" Bree ate the last fry, and eyed the remainder of his hamburger. "She's got potential, but she's cold. And angry. You like those things in a woman?"

Frohike's amusement evaporated. "You don't know anything about her. If you knew half of what she's gone through --"

"That's all the agents talk about, the things those two claim to have seen and done. I'm not discounting any of it. I just spent the last year with a man who sought enlightenment from a rock." Bree shook her head. "No, I'm basing my opinion on Agent Scully from personal observation. She ignores Fox's butt, and gets glassy-eyed and stares at the wall when she's talking to AD Skinner. Have you seen the shoulders and thighs on that man?" Bree fanned her hand in the air.

"She's a professional." Frohike caught the eye of their waitress and waved. "Apparently you don't have a clue about professional behavior."

"Apparently you don't have a clue about women." Bree sat back and wiped her fingers with a napkin, frowning as she stared at him. "I don't expect her to simper and drool, but Scully has all the emotional response of a cucumber. They notice her, even though they've obviously all known each other for some time. Women know when they're being noticed. Their response varies according to the way they feel about the noticer."

"Which is why you bit my head off over the nipple thing," Frohike said, surprised how irritated he felt with her about the Scully commentary.

"You do have a brain. You were noticing, and I got direct about it. If I wanted you to keep noticing, I would have leaned back and stretched. My response was based on my lack of attraction to you, your intelligence and basic harmlessness, and I didn't even have to think about it."

She stopped talking as the waitress asked about their meal and handed Frohike the bill.

"How do you think I'm going to respond to being classified as basically harmless?" Frohike asked between his teeth as he counted out cash to pay for their meal. "Or don't you have to think about that, either?"

Bree poured a last cup of coffee and drank it in four swallows. "I expressed myself poorly, Fro. I don't believe you're a threat to me. I'm sure you're death on wheels when necessary."

"Quit talking for a while. Use the bathroom again. I'm going to fill the gas tank. If you show up before I'm ready to leave, I'll take you with me." Wishing that Mulder was within earshot, Frohike left her in the booth, eating the rest of his burger.

 

"You're pissed off."

Daylight lingered to enjoy the last seconds of a beautiful holiday. Passing cars all had their headlights on, and the quality of the natural and artificial lights gave the world they drove through a vague, transitional feeling. Neither light nor dark, Frohike thought. Twilight time in the twilight zone.

"You could tell? How observant of you. Dana Scully is a friend. I see a smart, beautiful woman when I look at her. If she's not the happiest person on the planet, she has better reasons than most." Frohike turned off the air and cracked his window. He tried to regain a sense of perspective about his mission and his passenger.

"I'm sorry. She intrigued me, I watched her. Next subject." Bree's voice and face conveyed mulish unrepentence. "How long are we driving tonight?"

"Straight through till morning, Tinkerbell." Frohike flexed his gloved fingers over the wheel. "I'll probably stop for a break every couple of hours. I should be good for at least an eight hour stretch. If I feel like I'm falling asleep, we'll find a place to pull off, or you can drive. Should I keep heading west?"

"Start swinging north. Toward Ohio." Bree held the coat over her lap like a blanket. "I think I could sleep some more."

"Good." He didn't try to soften his intonation.

Bree slouched back into her seat and pulled the coat up to her chin. "Let it go, Fro. Either turn the radio on, or talk to me. Silence hasn't been real comfortable for me lately."

"And I'm here to keep you comfortable," Frohike said, "since waiting on women is what we basically harmless males are best at."

"Snippy bastard." Bree started giggling, then was out of control with laughter.

Frohike felt his resentment melt away. She was a snot, but he had the feeling she was coming down off a plateau of fear and isolation. Maybe she wasn't doing so bad. She wasn't trying to be hurtful, just honest.

"You want conversation? How old are you?" he asked when her laughter was under control. "Are you now, or have you ever been, married? What's your sexual orientation?"

"You're not Italian, are you?" Bree wiped her eyes and grinned at him. It gave her face a gamine beauty that, combined with her haircut, made Frohike think of elves. Ever since the conversation about her name, he'd had Tolkien lingering in the back of his thoughts.

"I only ask because I suspect you might have a fine grasp of the concept of vendetta."

"I can appreciate the concept, but I'm fundamentally an American amalgam," Frohike said, "and not patient enough for the niceties of vendetta. I'm more direct."

"I get that. I'm 27. I've never been married. I think I'm het, but if Kathleen Turner or Sigourney Weaver offered I'd consider swinging."

Now _that_ was something to add to his mental landscape.

"You should see your face." Bree laughed and pointed at him. "Half disturbed, half hopeful. Men are so predictable."

"You didn't mean it?" It didn't matter. The thought was what counted.

"Are there any men _you_ appreciate in a sexual way?"

"No." Frohike stared at her, wondering if she was as absurdly nosy and direct with other people. "I admit it's a cultural thing for me. I like women. I know it's different for most women. They grow up evaluating each other, and themselves in a fairly intimate way. They're sold their own sexuality packaged with everything from dish washing detergent to underwear. I think it makes them more aware, and appreciative of the sexiness of their own sex."

"Interesting idea. I don't think advertising makes you bi or gay, though." She was still laughing at him. "Victoria's Secret commercials don't leave me with the mindless urge to jump the models. I do wonder what would happen if I stuck one of those boobs with a hatpin. Would I get blood or the hiss of air escaping?"

"Is that only a fantasy, or are you naturally a violent person?" Frohike slanted a look at her.

"Yes. Your turn. You never answered _my_ questions," Bree pointed out.

"Let's see if the old guy can remember them." Frohike heard her snort. "I publish a newspaper. I'm 48. I've never been married, although I came close once. No children I know of. Used properly, alcohol is both a recreational and medicinal boon to mankind. I've been in jail a number of times; a couple of those times it was even my own fault."

"Fox said you were big into computers. I don't know much about computers, never got the chance to learn."

Frohike heard something in the words, a yearning. "What kind of schooling did you get? Did you always live with your mother?"

"I couldn't afford college. I took a few classes after I graduated from high school at the local community college, hoping . . . Then I moved out on my own, did the apartment thing with a friend, dated and partied and worked as a waitress in a classy restaurant for a while. The tips weren't bad, but I never had enough for full-time tuition. Mom didn't have any money. When her health took a turn for the worse I moved back to help her. It wasn't like I was giving up any kind of life." Bree shrugged and grimaced. "We moved a couple of times before we came to the D.C. area."

"Most of the young men you met must have been basically harmless, too," Frohike said, unable to prevent himself from utilizing a payback moment.

"I was too smart for the ones that followed me around, and not smart enough for the ones I found attractive," Bree said slowly. "Men aren't only interested in what you bring to the gene pool. They're interested in your economic feasibility, how your mother's thighs have held up, the size of your father's bank account. I fell short on a couple of counts."

"God. Do you realize how cynical and self-deprecating you are?" Frohike shook his head. "Give me a break. I know you aren't hanging out for reassurance from an old bastard. If you had a bad romantic experience, welcome to the adult world. If you're feeling depressed because there's no one in your life telling you how beautiful and intelligent you are, it's your own fault. Let it go, Tinkerbell."

Bree turned her head, looked out the window and didn't say anything.

"Did I manage to hurt _your_ feelings?" Frohike saw her fingers clench around the edge of the rain coat. "What about your father? You haven't mentioned him."

"I don't feel like talking any more." Bree kept her head turned away. Frohike could see she had shut her eyes.

Twilight turned to night. Frohike kept watch for any sudden bursts on the horizon, but saw only the stars. Too bad. He rarely missed fireworks on the Fourth.

The minutes passed with little popping noises as the LCD readout on the clock changed. When the one followed by three zeroes cycled up Frohike pulled over to the side of the highway. He wasn't tired, but his butt was going numb. He heard Bree's door open on the other side as he stepped out of the car.

The night air was still warm, and smelled of hot tar and hay. A sporadic breeze puffed across the top of his head, bringing the faint sound of distant traffic. There were no houses or buildings as far as he could see, and the hills rose to meet the sky on either side of the road, pushing the horizon upward in black swooping lines discernible only because of the absence of stars. Frohike walked down the road a bit, and back, coming around to Bree's side.

"Did you sleep?"

"A little." She stood and stretched. "Do you want me to drive?"

"Not yet, it's early. Are you thirsty? I got a couple of bottles of water, and Cokes at the truck stop. They're in the back seat."

"Maybe later."

She sounded tired, and subdued, Frohike thought. "I'm going to walk a bit and take a leak. Coffee is a mixed blessing. The caffeine is good, but the liquid content goes right through me."

"I'm usually the same way. I was probably a little dehydrated though, after smoke inhalation and sedation. I'm fine for now." Bree got back into the car, but left her door open.

The guys were probably sitting around in the alley, drinking and talking. The twins would light cherry bombs and chase each other with sparklers. Climbing back into the Chevy, Frohike wished he was in his folding chair in the alley, cold beer in hand.

Bree looked wide awake in the light coming from the console. "I miss the fireworks," she said as they headed down the road. "It doesn't seem like the Fourth of July without them."

"Yeah. I agree." Frohike took a deep breath. "You've just had a shitty year. My condolences on the death of your mother. I hope they convict this Abernethy kook and send him away until he molds. I hope it doesn't cost you anything else to help them do it -- like your sanity or your life. Believe me, I'll do what I can to help you."

"The road goes ever on, and on," Bree said, in a sad voice. "Thank you. I believe you. I wish I could just keep driving across the country and never look back. Since I can't, I need to stay alive and get my shit together before I have to look at the Rev's face again. He's one crazy fucker."

"You want to tell me about him? We weren't aware that Mulder had been involved in the case, and we keep pretty close watch on Mulder."

"He's easy to watch." Bree grinned and rolled her eyes. "They didn't bring Fox in until the mop up, after the translation ceremony. I'm not sure if things would have gone differently if they'd had him there before, but it was such a relief to talk to a person who wasn't assuming everyone connected with the chapel was drugged or insane. I'd been dealing with Agent Adamson. He's supposed to be a specialist on cults. He did okay, but the Rev was _not_ in his little reference book on insane charismatic cult leaders. At the end I think he'd also spent too much time in the Rev's vicinity. He started questioning everything I said about the Rev's activities."   
"Abernethy sounded pretty standard from the newspaper accounts," Frohike said cautiously. "Authoritarian child molester with delusions of a direct line to the Office of Responsibility for Human Existence; suicidal tendencies he expected his flock to mimic."

"The Rev was all that." Bree's face in the dim light looked paler, her eyes dark and shadow haunted.

Frohike felt his paternal instincts stir, and regretted his earlier harsh words. She was a soldier, recuperating from a grueling campaign. He could appreciate that, sympathize, and offer whatever help there was in his power to provide.

"But he was more. First you have to understand that the Rev's personal cosmology did _not_ include the Christian concept of God. He preached that Jesus -- and all other manifestations of God -- were either teaching tales and legends created to provide an ethical framework upon which to build culture, or just guys deified because of their own acts of conscience by people who didn't know any better, or by people who did but had political agenda in the deification process."

"Well, that pretty much covers world religions," Frohike said. "I had assumed the 'Rock' was a symbol for Christ."

"So did most people." Bree shook her head. "The Rock was just that. A rock. In the chapel basement."

Frohike started to laugh. He couldn't help it. "A literal, actual stone?"

"Yup. The foundation of the chapel is mortared fieldstone. Fox said parts of the structure date back to the late 1700s. There's this enormous boulder set into the center of the basement floor, mostly buried. The Rev spent hours down there. We could hear his voice ranting, then he'd come up and write sermons, and announce whatever leadings he'd been given."

"Leadings? Like instructions?" Frohike tried to wrap his mind around rock worship and decided he needed a lot more information. "What kind of leadings come from a rock?"

"Doctors and medicine are unnecessary. The Rev was father and husband to _all_ chapel members. All worldly goods -- especially money and guns -- are dross and should be donated to the chapel. Chapel members should give up their participation in the illusory world and prepare to ascend to the Rock, where absolute reality dwells." Bree kicked off her canvas slippers and pulled her left foot up onto her right thigh in a half-cross-legged position. "I'd love to go for a long walk, or a swim. I can't remember the last time I got any significant exercise."

"We've got ten days," Frohike looked down the dark highway, watched the long dashes of the painted divider line streak by. "I hope we don't have to spend all of it in the car. How much distance do you think we have to go from DC for you to be safe?"

"To the moon, Fro. To the moon."

She sounded a thousand years old. Frohike wanted to find the nearest motel, give her a chance to take a long, hot shower and tuck her in to sleep in a safe bed. He knew the sound of someone who'd gone into the wilderness carrying the burden of fearful responsibility, and hadn't yet returned.

"Mulder obviously thought a few hundred miles would help," he said, gently. "Does your gut tell you that won't do it?"

Bree changed position, alternating feet, and bent forward in a stretch. "I have no instincts left," she said at last. "Have you ever hunted rabbits, or been around a rabbit hunt?"

"No. I can kill something to eat, if that's what I have to do -- but I never hunted for sport."

"A beagle will flush a rabbit and chase it for two counties, beating its silly nose against the ground, without another thought in its mind except _rabbit! catch!_ All the hunter has to do is stand and wait. The rabbit will inevitably circle around and head back toward the place it was flushed. I don't know why they do it, but they do." Bree sighed. "Say we stay out of reach for the next ten days without an incident. It's possible that, like Mulder thinks, the Rev can't maintain his connection with me over distance. He'll have someone waiting when I go back. Count on it."

"Mulder will be expecting that," Frohike said. "He'll keep you safe. What about after the trial?"

"They're going to relocate me. That was my price for helping them nail the Rev and get a lead on the dealer who supplied the Rev with his psychotropics. If I testify, and I'm still alive afterwards, I'll be disappeared courtesy of the government. I can go to school if I want, or they'll find me a good job, help me find a place to live. Who wouldn't risk death for those things?"

The question hung between them. "We're headed toward Akron," Frohike said, when the silence got too long. "After breakfast we'll find a room, get some real sleep, then you can tell me where we're going from there."

"Why Akron? Why not Cincinnati, or Columbus?" Bree turned toward him. Frohike had the uncomfortable feeling that she was giving him a belated, thorough evaluation.

"I know the road." He wasn't going to go into detail, and the answer seemed to satisfy her. "Relax. If you want, I can pull over and put the back seat down. It's possible to sleep in the hatch space very comfortably."

"How much sleeping have you done in off-road cars?" Bree grinned, an expression of witchy wickedness that the darkness and her crazy hair enhanced, giving her the look of an evil Japanese cartoon character. "Lucky you're so compact. I'll bet you're a perfect fit in the back seat of a car."

"Shit." Both look and comment were unexpectedly disturbing. "Don't tease the short person." It was the most inoffensive of several retorts that hovered on his lips. Frohike heard her laugh, but didn't look over at her.

"I'll hang in here and nap." Bree cranked the seat back and pulled the rain coat over her lap and chest. "Did I say thank you?"

"You're welcome." Round fluorescent markers winked like eyes as they passed. Frohike felt his moment of discomfort recede. "Did I say I was sorry for being so harsh with you earlier? I am sorry. You are irritating."

"No big deal." Bree yawned and took a massive breath, then snuggled her cheek against the headrest. "I'm sure I'll be more irritating before we get back to D.C., and you'll say something even harsher."

"The glass really is half empty for you, isn't it?" Frohike was caught between amusement and more of that irritation she predicted.

"What glass? I don't see a glass."

From witch to waif. Eyes closed, hair spiked around her forehead, a sweet smile on her lips, the visual image of innocence was marred by the knowledge in her voice, Frohike thought sadly. There were a lot of layers to her, defensive, offensive, protective and buried aspects of her personality that he'd only glimpsed in the few short hours he'd known her. It was possible that she was mentally unbalanced, although surely Mulder would have picked up on that. It was also possible that Bree was just a very tough young woman doing her best to cope with unimaginable circumstances.

Either way, he was committed to helping.

Frohike kept his eyes on the road and let his foot rest a little heavier on the pedal.


	3. Chapter 3

**DAY 2. FRIDAY MORNING, 6:30 A.M.**

"Fro. Wake up. I found us a Denny's."

It took him a minute to remember why a woman, instead of Byers or Langly, was bugging him to wake up. Frohike opened his eyes and looked through the Chevy's hatch at a bright blue sky. He sat up and ran a hand over his head to smooth unruly hairs into place. Bree was already out of the car, doing what looked like yoga stretches, sans raincoat. Frohike hastily climbed over into the front seat, and exited the car. Her tank top was poorly designed for parking lot athletics.

"We need to take you shopping today. Are you flashing the parking lot on purpose?" Frohike looked around at the scatter of cars, but didn't see anyone leering at her navel.

Bree dropped her foot from in back of her ear, yawned and placed her hands on the back of her head with an exaggerated stretching motion. "Good morning."

"Yeah. They're nice, Tinkerbell. Let's get breakfast." Frohike brushed past her and led the way to the restaurant. "Get a table, I need to use the bathroom."

Frohike removed his gloves then took a leak, washed his hands and patted cold water over his face and neck. He stuffed his gloves into his back pockets and returned to the restaurant. For 6:30 in the morning there was already a good-sized breakfast crowd. Holiday weekend, Frohike diagnosed. When he caught a whiff of fresh coffee his stomach started to growl.

Bree already had a carafe sitting in front of her. She poured him a cup as he sat down. He barely had time to open the menu before the waitress showed up. Frohike decided to go with an omelet, then listened to Bree order a quantity of food that would have satisfied both Byers _and_ Langly.

"I've been eating vegetarian for almost a year," Bree said, filling half her cup with cream before adding more coffee. "I think it was leading 11: _thou shalt eat no meat_. I used to dream about chili dogs."

"Do you mind if I get a paper?" Frohike had seen the machines on his way in. It didn't seem like breakfast without a newspaper.

"Go ahead."

They took their time. Frohike read the paper and kept half an eye on Bree's progress from fruit cup to omelet to hash browns to pancakes to extra sausage links and bacon. She ate it all, washing it down with cup after cup of coffee.

"That was great." She finally sat back and smiled, dreamily. "Anything interesting in the paper?"

"Nothing special." Frohike looked at his watch. "It's 7:45. I think most of the Marts open at 7 a.m. Will that be okay for shopping?"

"Yes." Bree pointed at the wedge of uneaten toast on his plate. "You going to eat that?"

 

It didn't take them long to find a shopping center. Frohike gave Bree another handful of cash and told her he'd meet her by the checkouts in half an hour. He spent most of the time following her at a discreet distance, but managed to pick up a few items that looked useful as he cruised the aisles. He found himself fascinated by Bree's quick, decisive gathering of clothing and personal items. She didn't try anything on, just checked the sizes and piled clothing into her cart. Frohike turned the other way when she entered the health and beauty aisles, went through the check out and waited for her.

"Did you find everything you needed?" he asked as they walked back to the car.

"I think so." Bree looked down at the mountain of plastic bags with a bemused expression. "That's the most shopping at one time I've done in years. Where to now?"

"Do you want to drive some more, or find a motel and get cleaned up?" Frohike knew the answer before she opened her mouth.

"Shower. I can still smell smoke in my hair."

They loaded the car, then drove slowly down the highway, passing a couple of motels known for their inexpensive rooms. Frohike ignored Bree's pointed comments as he passed them by, reading the exterior advertising, searching for a non-franchise place with rooms that could be accessed from the outside, but didn't look mom and pop basic. He finally found a beautifully landscaped two-story motel that caught his eye.

"Wait, and lock the doors behind me," Frohike said. "This shouldn't take long."

It wasn't the usual time for check-ins, but the clerk was also the owner, and cheerfully confided to Frohike that she had several nice rooms empty. When Frohike told her he was driving his sister to meet her fiance in Michigan, the woman beamed and offered him the only room she had that combined two queen beds, and a jacuzzi in the bathroom, at a discount.

The room was on the ground floor, last in a line of ten.

"I'll get the door." Frohike popped the hatch and grabbed his duffel. He opened the '10' door and set his duffel down to keep it open. The air smelled clean, without the odors of chemical cleaners so prevalent in transient lodging. Frohike turned on the lights and looked around.

"Nice." Bree stood in the doorway with her arms full. She stepped inside and plopped everything down on one of the beds.

"I'll get the rest, if you want to hit the shower right away." There wasn't much left in the car. Frohike emptied the hatch and locked the doors. He looked around the parking lot, making mental note of what cars were around. It was already hot. The weather forecast in the paper had predicted day-long sunshine and mid-90 degree temps.

"There's a swimming pool in the bathroom." Bree stood between the bedroom and bathroom, waiting for him. "This is so cool."

"Why aren't you in it?" Frohike hefted his bag onto the other bed. "I'd like a turn sometime this morning."

"I know it's a jacuzzi, but I've never been in one. How does it work?"

"How hard could it be?" Frohike found the remote control, clicked the tv on and started searching for CNN. "Turn on the water and play with the knobs until something happens. What?"

Bree backed into the bathroom, howling with laughter. After a moment, Frohike heard the sound of water running.

Very strange girl, he thought, watching the CNN talking-head without registering what he was saying. Back home Byers and Langly would be cleaning up after last night's party. Well, Byers would be cleaning. Langly would be sitting in the kitchen, holding his head and bitching about his hangover, and the fact that they'd been left behind to do the work -- conveniently forgetting that Frohike had missed out on the fun responsible for generating the work. Kimmy and Jimmy could be anywhere. Frohike hoped they hadn't crashed in the van; both of them had weak stomachs. If Byers had to clean out the van alone, it would be just one more nail in his coffin when he returned from this road trip.

Frohike wrestled his boots off, and rubbed his toes. The resulting smell made him wince.

" _Wordlessly watching he waits by the window and wonders at the empty place inside, heartlessly helping himself to her bad dreams he worries . . ._ "

Bree was singing in the jacuzzi. Frohike turned down the sound on the tv and listened. Rising above the sound of running water her voice was clear and pure and beautiful. Songs blended into each other, separated by stretches of silence, presumably because she'd submerged her head, Frohike thought, grinning. After some audible splashing and a hearty Gilbert and Sullivan selection the singing stopped.

"I love that thing." Bree glowed pink, her hair spiked up like wet down. She wore tight blue jeans and a cotton t-shirt the color of a robin's egg. "When I get my own house, I'm going to have one."

"Every modern major general needs a jacuzzi." Frohike laughed out loud at the expression on her face. "Don't be embarrassed. You have a beautiful voice."

The glow dimmed. "It's okay. Your turn."

He'd hit a sensitive spot. Frohike grabbed his duffel, hauled it into the bathroom and shut the door. She'd left water all over the floor, but her toiletries were neatly arranged on the vanity sink. It really was like traveling with a female combination of Byers and Langly.

Frohike started the water. While he waited for the tub to fill he rummaged in the duffel for shaving gear, whistling the felon song from Pinafore and thinking of Mulder. After his chin was relatively smooth he got in the tub and experimented with the water jets. It was too relaxing. He couldn't keep his eyes open. He climbed out reluctantly, before he was fully pruned.

When he came out of the bathroom he found Bree curled up on a bed with her hands tucked under her cheek, fast asleep.

Frohike didn't think anyone could have followed them, even with divine guidance, but he wasn't going to take their safety for granted. He unfolded the square of bubble wrap he'd packed and placed it in front of the door. His brass knuckles would go under his pillow. Frohike checked the lock, then turned out the lights.

Too dark, he thought, going back to the bathroom. He turned on the light over the sink, and pulled the bathroom door halfway shut. He wasn't sure how Bree would react if she woke up in a totally dark, unfamiliar room.

Frohike threw the comforter onto the floor and crawled under the sheet. The bed was too hard, but the pillows were comfy. He shut his eyes and listened to the rhythmic click-click-click from the digital clock on the stand between their beds. It sounded like a metronome, Frohike thought drowsily.

 _... in short  
in matters  
veg-e-table,  
animal and  
min-e-ral,  
I am the very  
model of a   
modern major   
gen-e-ral ..._

The curtain came down. Frohike slept.

 

The small noises of a strange place woke him. No air-conditioner hummed in his own room, and his own clock had been selected because it made no discernible noise. Emerging from dreams to the waking world, Frohike heard hums and clicks, and the muted rustle of paper. He opened his eyes and blinked. The clock said 3:30. Bree sat in a chair near the small motel table, with her head bent over a book.

She looked up when he moved. "Hey."

"Hey." Frohike swung his feet over the edge of the bed, onto the floor. "How'd you sleep?"

"Very well, thank you. How about you?" Bree closed her book.

"Weird dreams, but otherwise okay." What would he see if he pulled back the curtains and looked outside? Frohike had a sense of dislocation, a Stephen King-like anxiety that somehow, as he slept, their room had been pushed into another dimension, another world.

Bree watched him as he went to the window and pulled open the drapes. "In the kingdom of weird dreams, I am the queen. I'll bet it's hot out there."

The world looked okay. Frohike could see cars flowing past on the highway beyond the trees that screened the motel, and far overhead a trail of white streaked the summer blue sky. The feeling of dislocation evaporated.

"Yeah. Hot." He went to the bathroom, debating what he was going to recommend as their next move. If Bree had some final destination in mind, now would be a good time for her to let him in on the plan. Frohike took a minute to brush his teeth and splash water on his face, noticing his beard had rapidly replenished itself during his sleep.

"So. Where do we go from here?" he asked, opening the bathroom door and looking toward the spot he'd last seen Bree sitting in. She wasn't there.

"What the hell?"

Bree was curled up on her bed, face buried against the covers, with her arms wrapped around her stomach.

Frohike went to her, quickly. "What's wrong?"

She shook her head, unable to talk. Her eyes were squeezed tightly shut, and she was making a rocking movement with her upper body.

Skin: cold, clammy. Frohike's fingers moved over her forehead and cheek, then to her neck looking for a pulse. Unexpectedly it was very slow. "You're in pain?"

"Will. Pass." Bree's words sounded slurred. "Damn."

It was obvious she was in pain. Frohike sat down beside her. She turned toward him, unwrapped one arm from around her middle, and grabbed his hand.

"Talk," she ordered.

"You like to read?" Frohike closed his fingers over hers. The strength of her grip surprised him. He kept his voice low and soothing. "I don't know what kind of books you like. You ever hear of Jose Chung? Now there's a story as bizarre as your Rev and his rock." He kept talking, watching her face and skin color, wondering how long it would take to get to the nearest emergency room. The only thing that kept him from hauling her out the door, into the car, was the feeling that Bree knew what was wrong with her, and expected it to pass.

"I read his book," Bree said, unexpectedly. She opened her eyes, swallowed hard and tried to sit up, still holding his hand. "Major weirdness."

"Yeah. You feeling better?"

"It hasn't happened for over two months. I didn't think it would happen again." Bree took back her hand and brushed her hair away from her eyes. It had resumed what seemed to be its normal state, a kind of erratic punk porcupine look.

"You're going to tell me about it. First, are you going to be able to stand up and get out of here?" Frohike got off the bed and looked around the room. She didn't have a lot to pack up, just the bathroom stuff.

"Yes." Bree eased off the bed and stood, a little shakily. "It doesn't usually last long."

"Then use the bathroom and gather your things." Frohike picked up the bubble-wrap rug and folded it. He put it in his duffel, then grabbed a clean pair of socks. He'd really wanted to stay the night, and start driving again in the morning, but somehow it seemed prudent to view Bree's behavior as an alarm.

Boots, vest, gloves. Frohike zipped his duffel shut as Bree came out of the bathroom. She moved swiftly without any lingering evidence she'd been in agony a few minutes ago.

"I'm packed." She looked at him across the room. "We're driving tonight?"

"Yes. Which direction? North?"

"North." Bree took her book from the table and directed a backward glance toward the bathroom. "Damn."

"There are other rooms with jacuzzis. We'll find them." Frohike smiled at her. She smiled back, her eyes losing the blankness she'd had during her attack.

Frohike checked them out. They were on the road in less than 15 minutes. He pulled into the first gas station they passed, filled the Chevy's tank, and bought a selection of junk food and soft drinks when he paid for the gas. He knew roughly where they were, but consulted the map in the glove compartment before they left the station. "What part of the north do you want to end up in?" he asked.

"Northeast." Bree's finger traced a route that skirted a large body of water. "There."

"On our way."

Traffic was heavy, with the holiday weekend in full swing. Frohike concentrated on driving until he picked up the Interstate, and the bumper on the nearest car was sixty feet away, instead of just four. Bree watched the road without speaking, face pale and expressionless. Frohike missed the glow she'd had that morning after her jacuzzi bath.

"So what happened back there?"

"The headaches started when we bought the house next to the chapel. I thought I had a brain tumor, or something. When it was really bad all I wanted to do was lay on my bed in total darkness, and hold a pillow over my head. I could barely stand to wear clothes. The lights in my head and the pain would last for a day, then I could get up and help mom again. I went to the doctor, had my eyes examined. Everyone I saw diagnosed migraines. I tried a couple of different medications, but nothing worked." Bree unhooked her seat belt and turned around, reaching back into the junk food sack. She pulled out a Coke. "You want anything?"

"Not right now. You don't get headaches any longer?"

"No. They tapered off just before mom died. I told you I was sick, when we first went to live with the Rev. The stomach aches started maybe a month after we moved in with him. Fortunately I never had both at the same time." Bree opened the Coke, tipped back her head and drank thirstily. "Need sugar, I think," she said. "Have you ever done mesc?"

Frohike raised his eyebrows. "Do I look like that kind of man?" he evaded.

"I think you look like an ex-stoner, you bark orders like a tough little stud who's used to directing the activities of others, and Fox thinks you're one of the smartest, most experienced men he knows." Bree finished the Coke and threw the can into the back. "Considering the size of that boy's brain that's a top-bullet item for your resume. How wrong am I?"

"I am familiar with the effects of mescaline," Frohike admitted, ignoring the rest of her comments, but filing them away for later review. "You mentioned the Rev used it in his services. You partook?"

"Everybody who attended special services partook. The story I told Adamson and the FBI is that I participated in one communion service. That will be enough for the defense to pounce on. Fox suspected it was more, he tried to worm it out of me."

"How many times?" Why was she telling him the truth if she hid it from Mulder?

"Three times, and you can forget I ever admitted it," Bree said sharply. "I don't plan for the jury to be left with the impression that I'm a spaced out, delusional freak. Evidence of my headaches is going to be thrown in there, along with the mesc."

"Whatever happened in the motel -- that can't have anything to do with using mescaline," Frohike said, frowning. "I was thinking appendicitis."

Bree shook her head. "They sucked enough blood out of me to keep a belfry of vampires happy for several months, but didn't find anything unusual. I'm clean on the MRIs and scans. No brain tumors. No other health issues. I've got kind of a fast metabolism and I seem to have a high tolerance for pain meds. I told Adamson -- and Fox -- that there was other stuff mixed in with the mesc, but they only found the drug when they raided the chapel. The communion mixture for the ascension service was different from the Rev's usual cocktail, a lethal but ordinary combo of barbiturates and alcohol."

"Describe what it's like when it happens." Frohike locked in the cruise control and let more adventurous traffic fly past them. He'd seen at least one trooper laying in wait on a turnaround. State heat was vigilant on summer holiday weekends.

"The first time I thought I was dying." Bree grimaced. "It's like someone takes a knife and guts me from here -- to here." She drew a line between the middle of her breasts down to her abdomen. "Then they take a handful of guts and pull, and the pain starts to go away, slowly. I think it happens because of something the Rev put in the communion mix, and in our food at home. I quit eating anything prepared in the house after the last communion I attended, and the pains became less frequent."

"And it hasn't happened for a month."

"No. I hoped . . . I just want it to be over." She was hanging on to her composure, but by her fingernails.

"Mulder didn't have any theories? I find that hard to believe." There was nothing he could think of to explain what was going on with her, but Mulder always had a theory.

"Fox thought the pains might be a symptom of my mind fighting off the Rev's interference." Bree scooched around in her seat and watched his face. "Everybody else got zombified to some degree around the Rev. The neighborhood people who didn't attend chapel still nearly worshipped the guy. The ones who did attend, well, he was like the brain and they were all fingers and toes. It was sickening."

"If Mulder is right, do you think your attack means the Rev is trying to make a connection with you?" It was bizarre enough to consider, Frohike thought.

Bree shrugged. "If it does, I hope the son-of-bitch is getting a hell of a headache from the effort."

"It didn't happen in D.C. before the attempts on your life?" He was trying to consider every angle, and the angles weren't making any kind of shape yet.

"No." Bree's face relaxed into a wan smile. "Smart guy. So we just keep moving."

"Yeah. Tell me more about the Rev, what it was like living in his house -- if you don't mind. You said he never touched you. A couple of the charges against him are CSCs." Frohike reminded himself he was a journalist, tough questions were necessary. Would she be okay with this one? He shot a look at her, and her sharp green eyes met his with direct candor.

"That stuff happened before mom and I got there. Fortunately. If I'd thought he was messing with any of the kids, I would have done something right away. My lawyer tells me those charges will be testified to by family members that live outside of the chapel area, and came in to take some of the children away from their parents months before the ascension ceremony."

Nasty business all around, Frohike thought.

"By the time mom and I came on the scene, I believe the Rev was in the last stages of whatever is wrong with him. Mom confided some things to me before she died that I wish I could forget. Abernethy probably preferred young kids, but in the end it took an experienced woman to get him off. He was nearly impotent, mom said." Her hands were going through her hair again, spiking it in all directions. "You're good practice for me, Fro. I didn't know if I could say that to anyone but Fox."

"You're welcome." Frohike reached for the radio. "A little music for a while?"

"Okay."

Frohike found an oldies station. They drove through the afternoon, listening to the radio, and after a while Bree started to sing along. The lack of bathtub acoustics didn't diminish the quality of her voice.

During a spate of commercials Frohike turned down the sound. "What will you do afterwards? Have you ever thought about singing professionally?"

She shook her head. "Mom was the singer. I have a nice voice. Mom was . . . god, I hate that monster." Bree bit her lip, hard. Frohike saw blood well across the broken tissue. "That's why he fixated on her. Mom used to sing while she hung our clothes out to dry. He heard her, and invited her to sing at the chapel. Mom didn't see that it would hurt. She loved lots of religious music."

"She's gone." Frohike said the words softly. "You have your own life and gifts. You've accepted the responsibility of standing up for her, and the others. You can do it, and move on."

"Men teach the important milestones in human evolution were the taming of fire and the invention of the wheel," Bree said, so quietly Frohike had to strain to hear her words. "I think the first public library was just as important. When knowledge became free and available to the poorest member of a society, that was a breakthrough in social evolution. Books have kept me sane. What I really want -- I want to own a bookstore. I want a big, old building near a suburb with lots of families. Moms and dads and kids can come in and sit and read if they want to, buy books if they want to, drink coffee and juice and talk about stories and ideas. That's what I want."

"Sounds wonderful." There was no such thing as a simple favor to Mulder, Frohike thought disgustedly. It struck him that Bree's dream wasn't so different from his own. It struck him that the feeling he was developing for Bree would be considered unpaternal in major world cultures.

"Have you ever heard of Athelia Carmichael?" Bree asked.

The name rang a distant bell. "Carmichael. I think so, but I can't remember."

"She wrote a pamphlet, back in 1942. It's called _Study War._ I'd never heard of it until the Rev gave it to me and mom to read," Bree said.

"I've never read it, but I've read writers that referred to Carmichael," Frohike said. All he could remember was that the pamphlet had been some kind of anti-war protest.

"The Rev used it to give additional credence to his 'no meat' leading. Carmichael predicted mankind would unleash more than one holocaust on themselves in World War II. She believed that man should have evolved further after domesticated fruits and grains became a more dependable food source, but that evolution got all balled up by man's scientific and medical advances. Nature's cruel methods of birth control have been circumvented, she says, and an exploding human population is draining the resources and resiliency of the planet. Men fight because there are too many of them in too small a space. Men fight because they're stuck on the wrong side of an evolutionary hump."

"Was she a Nazi?" Frohike asked. "I don't remember reading this stuff anywhere."

"Not at all. She thought that something had interfered with human evolution. She saw the perfect future earth scarcely populated by a multi-racial culture of vegetarian pacifists, who voluntarily kept population growth under control." Bree started to laugh. "She also thought drugs, alcohol and recreational sex should be eliminated."

"If you're going to tell me you buy into this crap --" Frohike could hear the alarm in his own voice. He cleared his throat. "The point is?"

"The human mind is not designed to comprehend the universe," Bree whispered. "Carmichael saw part of the puzzle, the Rev sees part of the puzzle, Fox sees a scary big part of the puzzle through the absence of pieces. Butchers, bakers, tinkers, tailors -- every human on this planet sees part of the puzzle. We build, we worship, love and reproduce; covet, kill, devastate and despoil. But we don't get it. We aren't supposed to. If we did, we wouldn't be human any longer. There was a reason the Israelites put a veil between themselves and their God."

"This has nothing to do with what you want for yourself after the trial. Just how worried about you should I be?" Frohike asked.

"I'm trying to tell you something I haven't told anyone else, not even Fox. I needed to tell him, but I couldn't."

"Tell me," Frohike said. He reached over and touched her arm. "It'll be okay."

"By whose definition?" Bree said, her voice tight and angry. "During communion I saw the rock. I saw where the Rev wanted to take all of us. You think if I admit that in front of a jury it'll be okay?"

No. He didn't. "You're thinking Sarah Conners: T2?"

"Oh yeah."

Frohike patted her hand. "As much as I want to talk to you about this, I don't think I should do it while driving. Is it all right if we wait until later?"

Bree nodded, then began to laugh. "It's a relief just saying it out loud. It sounds so silly."

"There are more things in heaven and hell, Tinkerbell. Hang in." Frohike put his hand back on the wheel, checked the gas gauge, and watched for the next road marker.

"Two and a half hours and we'll be into Michigan, and it will still be light. We can get gas, and eat somewhere. You must be hungry." His own stomach was reminding him how long ago breakfast had been.

"I can wait. Fro -- I don't want to be on the road tonight."

"Neither do I. We'll find you another jacuzzi." With luck, Frohike added silently. It _was_ a holiday weekend. There was a chance the best places would be full.

They got off the interstate when the gas gauge was down to a quarter of a tank. A conglomeration of signs promised food/gas/lodging. Bree said she knew the area and the town should be big enough to offer choices in those departments.

"I grew up in Michigan," Frohike said as they coasted down the off-ramp.

"So did I." Bree raised her eyebrows. "Where?"

"Pontiac. Where are you from?"

"A farm outside Grand Rapids. We moved when I was 15. Everything's changed. My aunt and uncle still live there. I visited them, with mom, a few years ago." Bree pulled her leg into her lap and stretched. "Now I'm hungry. Look -- all you can eat shrimp. Let's stop there."

"Okay." Frohike located the sign. "I'm going to fill the car first, then we'll swing back."

He didn't have to drive far to find a gas station. After he filled the tank he checked the oil and the fluids, and cleaned the windshields. Bree had stepped out of the car and was stretching, modestly this time. When he stepped inside to pay Frohike wandered over to the coolers, and selected a six-pack of beer and two bottles of wine. As he paid the cashier, he asked for a lodging recommendation.

"There are two places close by where we might be able to stay," Frohike said as he got back into the car.

Bree eyed the beer and brown paper sacks. "If you were planning on getting me drunk, I've also got a high tolerance to alcohol."

Frohike ignored her, and pulled away from the station. "You want shrimp or not?"

"Yum. Shrimp." Bree winked at him and grinned. "All you can eat."

"Little snot." Frohike couldn't keep from grinning back. "I've seen how much you can eat. If I wanted to get you drunk, I'd probably need a keg."

They had to wait in line for a half hour. Frohike bought another paper and read until the hostess called for the 'Smiths.'

They were seated at a table by the windows. It made Frohike uncomfortable at first, but Bree was oblivious to their exposure. She ordered a glass of Chardonnay and told the waitress she could take their dinner order right away.

"We'll both have the shrimp. I'll take a Corona, and tell them I'm not a fan of limes with beer," Frohike said.

"No naked shrimp," Bree added. "Deep fried. French dressing. Baked potatoes. Extra sour cream. Go now."

The waitress laughed and hurried away.

"You like French dressing, right? How long do you think you'll publish your paper?" Bree asked as they waited for their drinks. "Do you make any money?"

"I'm out of luck if I wanted bleu cheese." Frohike tried to frown at her. "I don't know about the paper. A long time, I hope. We haven't exposed even the tip of the iceberg of corruption and nefarious activities by government and global industry that affects Americans every day, in every conceivable aspect of life." Frohike sighed, and pulled off his gloves. "No, we don't make any money."

"You've got mission, you've got friends. You're fortunate." Bree stood, face bleak, fingers pushing through her hair. "I'm going to use the bathroom."


	4. Chapter 4

The shrimp were fat and delicious, and the breading wasn't soaked with grease. Frohike was full after they'd finished the first platter but Bree asked for more, so he ordered another beer and sat back and watched.

"Wimp." Bree waved a shrimp at him and popped it in her mouth. "These are great."

Something was not quite right. Frohike pushed aside the bread basket and stared at her plate. "Are you eating the tails? You're eating the tails."

"So?" Another shrimp disappeared.

"You're not supposed to eat the tails." Frohike cringed at the thought. Talk about roughage.

"They're crunchy. I always eat the tails." Bree finished her second glass of Chardonnay and sighed. "I'm full. That was excellent."

"No wonder you have stomach aches," he muttered.

It felt cooler when they finally left the restaurant, and windy. Frohike saw Bree shiver and rub her arms.

"Michigan weather. Too damn cold all the time," Bree said, slamming her door shut. "I didn't think to buy a jacket. Where's the raincoat?"

"My jacket will be warmer. It's in the back. Grab it." She'd look fantastic in leather, he thought, watching her put her arms into his jacket. It wasn't a bad fit. Tight black leather pants with zippers at the ankles; black leather chemise under his jacket instead of a t-shirt. Bra, nope. Oh yeah.

"Fro? Are we going to find a motel?"

Frohike started the Orc, his errant imagination adding boots with stacked heels to the ensemble. "Yes, we're going to find a motel. This morning you were my sister. Does that still work for you?"

Bree smirked at him. "I guess if you're asking for two beds I couldn't be your girl friend, Mr. Smith."

No. She couldn't.

The first place was full, but the second motel had one room left with a jacuzzi and a king-size bed. Frohike took it. He could sleep in a chair, or even on the floor, he told himself. It wouldn't be a problem. Bree didn't bat an eye when he told her.

"Let's put the stuff in the room and go for a walk." For a woman who'd just eaten a couple of pounds of shrimp, a salad, a baked potato, two glasses of wine and several pieces of bread she seemed unnaturally hyper.

"That's a good idea," Frohike agreed. "If you got in the jacuzzi right now you'd probably cramp up and drown."

Bree ignored him and concentrated on gathering her bag and the junk food sacks. After the Chevy was empty Frohike locked all the doors.

"You wanted to walk. Let's walk."

"Will you be cold? I've got your jacket," Bree said, obviously reluctant to give it up.

"I'm fine with my vest. It's not that bad, must be in the high 60s. The wind makes it feel colder." Frohike checked out the cars in the parking lot, and kept an eye on the traffic driving by. They followed a sidewalk past several businesses, including an ice cream shop. Frohike saw Bree eye the neon sign as they approached it.

"Later," he said. "I do not want to wait in an emergency room while they pump your stomach."

"I trust you, you need to trust me." She grabbed his elbow and looped her arm around his. "I know my own limits."

They walked for nearly an hour as the sun disappeared and the street lights came on, arm in arm, window shopping and talking about books and movies they both liked. Frohike discovered their favorites were mostly different, but not uncomplementary.

He was amused to find Bree liked poetry, adored juvenile fantasy literature in spite of her Tolkien put-downs, and loved old Doris Day movies. Her character fascinated him. She moved from unconcealed childlike delight to street-wise smartass from minute to minute. There was a hard core of resilient strength in her, Frohike thought, that her experience with the Reverend Abernethy had damaged, but not destroyed.

It was dusk when they got back to the motel.

" _Glass Bottom Boat_ \-- Paul Lynde," Bree said as he opened the door to the room. "If I had to choose; with _That Touch of Mink_ coming in a close second. John Astin kills me."

"Both good choices." Frohike locked the door behind them then held the jacket while she slid out of it. Her cheeks were red from the wind, her hair wilder than usual. "Is it jacuzzi time?"

She laughed and gave him a thumb's up. "If you want to use the facilities, do it now. I'm going to be in there for a while."

 

Motel rooms were never very well lit, Frohike thought. Not only did 35 watt bulbs save on electrical usage, but also made stains in the carpet and faded wall coverings easier to camouflage. Even though this motel was clean and neat, the lights in their room upheld the 35 watt tradition.

He pulled the drapes and turned on the bedstand lamp, and the floor lamp next to the small table near the window. The dim yellow light gave the room a warm, intimate appearance. Water gushed in the bathroom, but Bree wasn't singing. He'd made her self-conscious about it. Frohike regretted her reaction. He enjoyed listening to her sing.

There were two arm chairs, one on each side of the table. They weren't recliners, but if he pushed them together he'd be able to sleep on them. Frohike glanced at the bed and quickly looked away. The chairs would be fine.

Locating the remote control, Frohike turned on the tv and parked it on the news channel. He debated a moment over the beer, but decided instead to open a bottle of wine. He took the coffee mugs off the courtesy tray and filled one. Hard liquor would have been better but he was on duty, not vacation, Frohike told himself -- even if it felt like a vacation.

By the second mug of wine he was flipping channels and reading through the in-house menu of pay and adult movies. It made him think of the last time he'd traveled with the guys, and the infamous $89.95 bill for movies the desk had given Byers. The movies hadn't been half as much fun as Byers' reaction.

There was nothing he wanted to watch. Frohike turned the sound down and went back to the news channel. He wished he'd brought a laptop. Tomorrow he'd buy a steno notepad, and do some writing longhand, the old fashioned way. They could go to a book store, too. There was a lot of time to fill before they got back to DC. Any minute he'd start getting bored.

Frohike had just poured his third mug when Bree came out of the bathroom.

"I think I could live in one of those." Bree stopped in the doorway, sending water flying everywhere as she shook her head. She pointed at the nearly empty wine bottle on the table beside him. "Are you going to drink the whole bottle? I'd take a glass."

"There's another bottle." Frohike heard himself answer her, and marvelled at the brain's ability to overcome hurdles set by the body. Bree wore a plain white t-shirt and the baggy sweatpants. Taken singly the garments were ordinary and unremarkable. Draped over Bree's damp skin, molded to emphasize the elegant curve of her breasts and hips, the tight line from her waist and back down to her small, rounded bottom, and those nipples poking hard through the snowy white cotton . . .

Frohike filled the second mug with the last of the wine from the first bottle. "Here."

"Thanks." Her fingers were nearly translucent, pink and warm against Frohike's fingers as she took the mug. She went to sit on the bed, stuffing the pillows up behind her back then perched cross-legged close to the nightstand so she could set her mug down.

"Anything on the tube?"

"Nada." He touched the control and the silent picture on the screen faded. His mouth was dry. Frohike drank some more wine and stared at a bad painting of ducks by a river bank. So she was attractive. That was a plus, right? He been given nearly two weeks of spending the Bureau's money, jumping from jacuzzi to jacuzzi with a pretty, young woman. Young woman -- he needed to remember that. This wasn't a 1960s romantic comedy. He wasn't 'enry 'iggins, definitely not Rock Hudson, or even Cary Grant, although he'd always thought there was a slight resemblance.

The old adage, familiarity breeds contempt was just as true when it stopped, mid-adage, Frohike thought uncomfortably.

How insane was it to get bothered over Bree? He was a connoisseur of hot babes, a veteran window shopper. He could look and not touch. He could. It wasn't like he had a choice. He was the harmless chaperone, confidant and buddy.

"What are you thinking about?" Bree asked. "You look so serious."

"I was thinking about your rock," Frohike lied. "Do you want to tell me about it now?"

Bree drained her mug and held it out. "More?"

Frohike opened the second bottle and filled her mug, then his own.

"The first communion scared the piss out of me," Bree said, settling back on the bed.

"The mescaline?" Frohike asked.

"Not at all. Although I got scared the next day when I realized the Rev was drugging his congregation without warning them -- and if he'd do that, he'd do lots of other things." Bree sat her mug down on the night stand and folded her hands in her lap. "The Rev took us down to the basement, one by one. When my turn came he had me stand in the middle of this big slab of black stone. He asked me what I saw."

"What was your answer? What did you see?" Frohike leaned forward, watching her closely. She seemed completely composed and rational.

"I saw a rather colorful basement," Bree laughed. "I talked to him about the furnace. It fascinated me." Her smiled died away. "He took me back upstairs, and I joined the rest of the group sitting in the pews. I think I closed my eyes and drifted. I drifted right past something living in the chapel's basement."   
"You had a vision?" Frohike saw her shake her head.

"I wouldn't say that, but maybe you would. I had a clear perception of a thing hanging out on the threshold between here and there. It didn't care that I was looking. It just was. In its space. Being." Bree looked at him, frowning. "Whatever the Rev's rock is, I believe it's incapable of interacting with us. It's something so alien, so removed from where we are that we'd have a better shot at learning to speak with a redwood tree."

"Did Abernethy speak with it?"

"Don't think so, although he pretended he was on a first-name basis. I mean, come on -- why would an alien consciousness bother to give the stamp of approval to unorthodox sexual activities. All those leadings were just junk dredged out of the Rev's twisted mind." Bree snorted and rolled her eyes. "I do believe he could see, more clearly than I could, the place the rock was hanging out in, the place that isn't _here_. He was all hot to get there, that's for sure. How nuts do you think I am now?" Bree tipped her cup back and finished her wine.

"Why didn't you tell Mulder about this? It's the kind of thing he deals with all time," Frohike said uncomfortably.

"Fox would have sunk his teeth into it and refused to let go. I saw him in action," Bree said. "He spent four hours crawling around the chapel basement -- sometimes on his hands and knees -- before he moved upstairs and did the same thing. He won't think, or care, how I'd look to a jury if the defense shares the fact I could see the same thing the Rev does. I made a decision after mom died. I'm not interested in why the Rev is the way he is. I want him to be punished for what he's done."

"And you're prepared to perjure yourself if necessary to achieve his conviction." Frohike sighed. "I guess I can't blame you. I don't think you're nuts, but I do wish you'd tell Mulder about the thing in the basement. It could still be there. Have you ever considered the Rev's ability to control other people might have something to do with the presence of the rock?"

"How could it? I'm telling you -- there was no interaction." Bree twisted her fingers together, unconsciously. "I've thought about it, Fro. I believe whatever gives the Rev the power to influence other people is the reason he saw the rock in the first place. He might have gotten stronger at the chapel because he had a focus, a reason to work harder and develop his ability."

"Why tell me?"

Bree looked at him, her lips pressed tight together, a line between her eyes as she concentrated. "Fox told me to. I needed to."

Frohike wasn't sure what amazed him more, that someone had done something Mulder recommended, or that Mulder had nominated him for the job.

"Yesterday morning when he extracted me from the clutches of the FBI, Fox told me you'd keep me safe. He said you wouldn't think I was crazy or evil, no matter what I told you. He also said you had the best kung foo. I pictured Chuck Norris."

"And you got Jackie Chan." Frohike shrugged, laughing ruefully.

"Hey, Jackie is kickass cool," Bree protested. "There's something mom used to say, 'familiarity breeds content and trust.' You get thrown into a situation like this, 24 with a stranger, you make up your mind real fast about their character. You're okay, Fro."

Weirdness. Frohike hoped she wasn't reading his mind. But if she was, surely she would have thrown something at him by now. He experimented with a mental image. No -- she definitely wasn't reading his mind. "That's not how I remember the saying."

"Mom not only saw the glass, she saw enough in it to keep the world hydrated. I miss talking to her. He took her away from me months before she died." Bree got off the bed. "Give up the rest of that bottle. I'm done talking. See if you can find a movie on the tube."

She appropriated the wine and carried it back to the night stand. "You're not planning something silly, like sleeping in that chair, are you? This bed is huge, and we're both short enough. I can sleep cross-ways at the top, you can have the bottom. If you're concerned about rolling into me during the night, we can fold the bedspread and put it in the middle for a barrier. You know, like that old comedy with Clark Gable."

If she was reading his mind, she deserved anything she saw there, Frohike thought. "I'd take the bottom in a minute," he said, dryly, "but the chairs will be fine."

 

 **WASHINGTON, D.C. - 9:30 P.M.**

"Do you live here?" Mulder knocked politely as he stuck his head around the edge of the door. Skinner sat at his desk, hands behind his head, staring into space. The light from a desk lamp illuminated the A.D.'s face and the top of the desk, creating an island in the dim spaces of the darkened office.

"It seems like I do. Why are you here?" Skinner pulled himself into a more formal posture.

"Just sneaking around." Mulder took one of the chairs normally used for inquisitions and pulled it closer to the desk. "You left a message."

"I got some disturbing information today about the Reverend Abernethy. The parishioners involved in the ascension service are going to testify that the Rev knew nothing about the spiked wine. They're going to say it was their idea, based on a faulty understanding of what the Rev was preaching to them." Skinner shook his head in disgust and removed his glasses, tossing them carelessly into the scatter of papers in front him.

"I believe the defense is also going to imply that Abernethy had no knowledge about the mescaline. Bree Webster used to live with this woman, Donna Welling, who's currently doing time for dealing a variety of illegal drugs. She was arrested and convicted a couple of years after Bree lived with her, but they're going to try and make it look like Bree could have had the connections to buy the mesc."

"The prosecutor said Bree came up almost lily," Mulder said. "It's pure fabrication."

"Of course it is. But it doesn't sound good."

"Are you aware of Abernethy's state of health?" Mulder asked.

Skinner's eyes sharpened focus on him. "They had a doctor in to see him. His lawyer has been yelling about our infringing on Abernethy's right to practice his religion."

"Which he can only do in the chapel," Mulder said, slowly. "I spent the day following Abernethy's lawyer."

"Did you learn anything?"

"The lawyer went to the chapel this afternoon, with his briefcase in hand. He spent about 15 minutes inside, then beat feet back to call on the Rev. I spoke with the doctor who examined Abernethy. He's suffering from insomnia and lack of appetite. The doc thinks Abernethy has peptic ulcers, or other digestive ailments. He recommended some tests. The Rev's dropped ten pounds since he's been in jail." Mulder yawned and stood. "I'm done for today. Tomorrow I'm going back and look around the chapel again. I must have missed something."

"She's still safe?" Skinner replaced his glasses.

"Absolutely," Mulder said. "I have total faith in her bodyguard."


	5. Chapter 5

**DAY 3. SATURDAY MORNING, 6:30 A.M.**

The chairs hadn't been a good idea. Unable to find a comfortable position, even with the assistance of a pillow and blanket from the bed, Frohike had finally given up and stretched out on the carpet. Slow waking brought an assortment of aches along the length of his body. His sinuses were dry and tight after a night of assault from the motel air conditioner.

Frohike sat up. Early daylight seeped in through the quarter-inch gap he'd left between the heavy drapes. Time to take a leak, he thought. He had to grab one of the chairs to help him stand. The stiffness made him feel old. He needed to get out and do some camping, toughen himself up.

Bree was already awake, sitting up in bed.

"Good morning." Frohike tried to put a spring in his step as he walked to the bathroom. He knew what he looked like in the morning, with bed-head and a dark shadow over his cheeks and chin. Vanity was a silly quality to embrace under such circumstances, but he didn't want her to see him shuffle like a relic. A man had some measure of pride. Fortunately it looked like Bree wasn't completely awake, anyway. Her eyes were half-shut, and she yawned as he stepped past her.

The mirror confirmed his expectations. Frohike patted his hair back into place, washed his face and cleaned his glasses. He felt better. He felt pretty good, actually. A hot shower and shave would take care of lingering stiffness from his sleep on the floor, but he'd let Bree use the bathroom first. Not only was it good manners, but Frohike admitted he enjoyed bathing in a steamy, Bree-scented bathroom.

"I'll get water to start the coffee, then you can have the bathroom all to yourself." Frohike picked up the coffee pot, turned around. Bree's eyes were focused on the air above his head, Her face was lax and blank. He returned the pot to the heater. "Bree?"

Was she asleep? Frohike walked to her side. "Bree, are you awake or asleep?" A question that sounded stupider than it was, he thought as he watched her unchanging expression. He touched her arm, carefully. "Bree?"

"I'm allergic to cats." She stared at a far wall without blinking. "Have you ever wondered what cats think about while they sit, half awake in the sun? Eyes looking outward and inward?"

Frohike sat down on the edge of the bed next to her. "No, I haven't thought much about cats," he said quietly. She seemed to be dreaming aloud, her mind a million miles away from the motel room.

"Most people don't. A few poets. A few women of power. Once in a blue moon of years a man of power. A cat's interior life conjoins in a place where cat-mind is a world, a universe. The cat is the only creature on this earth born to live each day in two. I've hunted in the wild heart of time with claw and tooth, and prowled the dark between worlds with the feral guardians."

"Did you have a dream?" Frohike couldn't imagine what else she might be talking about.

Bree yawned hugely and pushed back the sheet. She rolled off the bed on the side opposite to where he sat, and disappeared into the bathroom.

Odd. Way odd. Frohike looked at the coffee pot wistfully, then remembered the bottled water he'd bought the day before. He found a bottle in the junk food bags, filled the carafe and poured it into the heater, listening to the pop, crackle and drip of the machine turning water and grounds into a life-sustaining beverage. He'd finished a cup and was wondering if he should leave the second for Bree, or drink it himself, when the bathroom door opened. Bree stepped out, toweling her hair.

"Good morning. I hope I didn't wake you up. Is that coffee?"

"It smells better than it tastes," Frohike poured the last of the coffee into the second motel mug. He watched her take a sip and make a face.

"I've had worse." Bree put her cup on the table, retrieved one of the armchairs, then sat down and looked at him expectantly. "What do we do today?"

"First you can explain the whole cat thing." Frohike pulled the second chair to the table. "Then I'll shower, we'll get breakfast, then we'll drive somewhere, your choice."

"Cat thing?" Bree frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"You told me you are allergic to cats, and other stuff. Then you went into the bathroom."

"I am allergic to cats," Bree said slowly, "when did I tell you? When I woke up you were still sleeping, so I went to take a quick shower."

"No." Frohike shook his head. "When _I_ woke up you appeared to be awake, sitting in bed. You told me cats live in two worlds."

"Oh crap." Bree drank the contents of her cup quickly. "I haven't talked about cats for years. Whatever I said, just ignore it."

"I don't think I can, and I don't think I should." Frohike could see the panic in her face, the withdrawal. "Did you mention cats to Mulder?"

"Good god, no." Bree's voice trembled, just a little.

Mulder should have made this trip with her, Frohike thought helplessly. This was his area of expertise. It was becoming obvious to him that Bree had some kind of psychic sensitivity, and it was like nothing he'd ever read about or heard of.

"Talk to me."

Bree shook her head. "Shower. Let me think."

"Okay." Frohike fixed her with a stare. "Think. In the room, not outside."

 

Everything got washed, fast, and he skipped the shave. When Frohike opened the bathroom door, he could see Bree watching tv, some cartoon he couldn't identify. Not that there were many he _could_ identify, anymore. She looked at him and made a face.

"How long does it take you to grow a full beard? Two days?" Bree turned off the tv. "Let's get out of here and find breakfast."

"I'll check us out, so we won't have to come back."

They transferred their belongings to the car. Frohike gave the room a last once-over, then walked down to drop their keys off at the front desk.

"I don't need much this morning, if you can stand to do drive-through," Bree said when he got into the car.

"You feeling okay?" From the corner of his eye Frohike could see her, relaxed in the seat next to him. She looked about 17 without makeup, hair still damp and mussed. In her lime green t-shirt and jeans she looked cool and jarringly elegant. Frohike found himself thinking of Audrey Hepburn in _Roman Holiday_ , with the addition of real breasts. It was an unsettling line of thought.

"I'm just not hungry. Anywhere but McDonald's. Their coffee sucks."

"You're not hungry. Call 911." Frohike looked up the stretch of highway and spotted an alternative drive through. "I'm not that hungry, either."

When he paid for their food, Frohike asked for directions to the nearest city park. It wasn't far, the girl told him, a couple of lefts and he couldn't miss it.

Dew still soaked the ground, tracing spider webs with liquid highlights and darkening the wood on old picnic table benches. The air smelled like damp, crushed grass. Against his skin Frohike felt the morning sun begin to burn away the night cool. It would be a hot, humid day.

"It's like I'm on vacation." Bree held the styrofoam coffee cup under her chin, inhaling the steam. "It's been almost 10 years since mom and I went on an actual, organized, take-time-off-from-real-life vacation. We had fun together."

"You miss her." Her eyes weren't just damp from the steam, Frohike thought.

"Yeah. I miss her." Bree blinked and buried her face in her cup for a moment. "I worked morning shift at this restaurant for a couple of years, in at 6 a.m., out at 11. People are nicer in the morning. They haven't had a rough day yet, haven't had time to build up the frustrations and spites that make them cranky at dinner. People want their coffee, tea or juice so they can wake up and get moving. Breakfast food is important. A good breakfast will carry you through until mid-afternoon. Some people figure this out early in life. Some never do. I discovered I like breakfast people more than dinner people."

"They have to beat the hell out of the bar crowd." Frohike grinned.

Bree laughed. "People who start coming in for food at 1 a.m. are scary." She shook her head. "Don't get me wrong, some are interesting. Some are regular stiffs who don't make a habit of it. But the drunks and vamps are scary."

"Vamps?"

"Just what it sounds like, vampires. The ones with alternative diurnal-nocturnal life-styles. Legitimate late-shifters don't bother me. It's the others that creep me out." Bree placed her cup carefully on the picnic table and looked around at the park, avoiding Frohike's eyes. "You get that I see shit other people don't see?"

"I'm getting that. I don't think you're crazy." He really didn't, Frohike realized as he said he words. He'd looked into crazy eyes before. He'd seen obsession, confusion and insanity. Bree's eyes were clear and grounded. She might be conflicted about what she saw, but he had no doubt she really saw it.

"You ever think about the nature of reality?" Bree pushed away the half-unwrapped breakfast sandwich.

"Most Saturday nights, about 2 a.m.," Frohike said, only half-joking.

It was quiet in the park, an oasis surrounded by the noise from thousands of machines joining the waking world. Air conditioners kicked into overdrive. Lawn mowers, radios, televisions, the rasping thunder of a motorcycle speeding past on the nearby highway, all plastic and metal parts powered by petroleum and electricity interconnecting to form a cartoon-style transformer. The Tools of Man, the armored shell which, increasingly, altered humankind's relationship to the earth that sustains them. Could intellect alter reality, Frohike wondered, or the tools intellect conceived . . . or was the whole question a useless pipe dream, as his existence might be just a shadowy backwash from the true north of realities.

It was an odd thought to have, completely sober in broad daylight. What _did_ cats see when they walked away from the homes of man into tall grass?

"No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality." Bree rubbed her temples and grimaced. "That's a quote."

"Shirley Jackson, _The Haunting of Hill House_." Not only did he experience an immediate and vivid recollection of the story's first paragraph, but the skin on his arms crawled with a physical reaction to the memory. "Are we back to the face of God again?"

"Cats believe they _are_ god," Bree said, laughing. "The thing is, interaction between the material universe and the spiritual and cognitive universes may create as many different realities as there are sand grains on the seashore. No sane human wants the veil dropped. No sane human wants to break the illusion that this is the entire spectrum," Bree gestured at the park around them, "instead of only one splinter of light from a prism."

"You think?" Frohike's stomach clenched, an acid-reaction to the coffee, he was sure. "Philosophers, scientists, psychologists, prophets and science-fiction writers have debated and theorized about such a possibility. Theory's all they ended up with -- and good stories. Sane or insane, nobody's been there and back again."

A ginger-colored cat appeared through the wet grass between two oak trees. It turned and looked at them, whiskers quivering with flecks of dew like quicksilver. It sneezed once, then stalked an orange butterfly across the lawn beside their table.

"I have." Bree's eyes followed the cat until it disappeared behind a trash receptacle. "Let's drive, Fro. We need to be somewhere else."


	6. Chapter 6

**WASHINGTON, D.C. - 11:30 A.M.**

"He's in bad shape. I don't think he's going to live."

Mulder held the phone to his ear with one hand, with the other he flipped his turn signal. "When did all this happen?"

"This morning," Skinner said. "They found Abernethy unconscious in his cell. Some kind of intestinal blockage, the doctor says. He's been in emergency surgery for over an hour."

"Thanks. I'll call back in a while."

"Mulder -- they've stopped holding prayer meetings. And there don't seem to be any parishioners near the hospital."

"Where's the lawyer?"

"Playing golf."

"You're right," Mulder said. "I don't think the Reverend's going to make it."

Mulder put down the phone and parked his car. Across the street a hand-lettered sign identified the neat white chapel building.

He'd gone for a run early, before the air got superheated. Afterwards, standing in the shower Mulder had let the water run over his face and thought about the chapel. It nagged at him like a hangnail. There was something more to be found there, he was sure of it.

Mulder whistled as he let himself into the sanctuary. " _Rock of Ages, cleft for me. Let me hide myself in thee . . ._ "

 

 **MICHIGAN - NOON**

It looked like home.

Years sped backward as the tires of the Chevy grabbed and unrolled miles of smooth, black freeway. Seen through a barrier of green that buffered cities and suburbs from the interstate, Frohike found himself thinking that he might take an exit leading to Detroit, Saginaw, or Flint, and find the same people, the same bars, the same simple existence he remembered from his childhood.

Back in Stephen King territory. Where he'd been from the moment Mulder had introduced him to Bree.

"I'm glad you're with me, Fro." Bree rolled up her window and flicked the air conditioning control up a notch. Her hair was wilder than usual, sculptured by the wind into hedgehog chic. "I know where we have to go, and I'm scared."

"Do I get the story now?"

"Nosy bastard." Her smile was radiant, her eyes intent as she leaned toward him. "You get the world premiere recital of the Great Mystery of Bree Webster's Life."

"Talk to me." Frohike edged the car's speed up to just under 80, and turned on the cruise control. Traffic was light, the sun was summer bright, and the pretty lady sitting next to him was getting up close and personal in the confidence department -- a concatenation of events that would normally have given him the warm fuzzies. Strangely, his gut experienced cold, apprehensive discomfort as he waited for Bree to speak.

"We're headed across the Mighty Mac, into the Upper Peninsula. There's a small resort on the shore of Lake Michigan. Simple cabins, a beautiful view of the lake. When I was little we'd spend a week or two during the summer, collecting mosquito bites and beachcombing for agate, chlorastrolite and Petoskey stones."

"I haven't seen a Petoskey stone in years. I used to have one on a keychain." Years ago. That keychain held his first car keys.

"The summer I turned seven my father disappeared. He was swimming, only about 40 feet from the shore. He dove, I stooped to pick up a green stone. He never came back up."

"Drowned?" Frohike saw her shake her head.

"They didn't find his body. Everybody said he drowned, and some current probably took him into the depths. Never to be seen. Never to be found. Full fathoms five my father lies . . ." Bree slanted him a look. "Mother never took me back to the resort. She mourned, but not because they failed to find his body. She mourned because the son-of-a-bitch was anything but dead. He'd gone away without us, somewhere she'd always refused to believe he -- we -- could go. Dad took a long, deep dive into another world."

"You're not talking after-life, move on to the next stage of existence. You're talking through a door into --?"

"And you believe it because I say so." Bree smiled.

A tilt of her fragile, triangular face, green eyes veiled by luxuriant black lashes, one white canine point marred the perfection of her lipstick-model smile. Cold turned to hot, and back again in Frohike's stomach. _I've hunted in the wild heart of time, with claw and tooth ..._

"I went with him, the first time, when I was four. He would leave me with the guardians. It was like dropping a kid off at preschool for him. He warned me not to tell mother. Of course I did."

"I can't imagine a kid -- my kid -- telling me they were hanging out on another plane of existence. With cats or anything else." Frohike shook his head. "She refused to believe it?"

"Steadfastly. Stubbornly. She told me it had never happened, it was fantasy and denial over my father's death. And since I quit dreaming about the guardians, fantasy was where my mind stored my childhood. Until the Rev."

Silence filled the car.

Frohike kept his eyes on the road and watched the familiar landscape. Every shade of green in an impressionist's pallet. The mix of conifer and deciduous trees. The erotic curvature of luxuriant hills dotted with abandoned orchards and piles of glacially deposited stone that ancient plows had discovered. Present moment was nothing more than a collage of the moment just past, the moment before that, infinity of moments before that.

"In the Reverend's home I started dreaming again, about the guardians. But it was more like looking through a window than stepping through a door. And I didn't try to find the door." Bree leaned toward him and placed a hand on his leg, sliding her palm down his thigh toward his knee. "I don't want to go there, Fro. With all it's imperfections, this universe is plenty for me. I'm not the warrior my father was, although the catting-around doesn't seem so undesirable right now."

"One fantasy at a time." Frohike moved her hand off his leg. He blinked away a drop of sweat that rolled off his forehead. "Get to the part about why we're going to the resort, and if you tell me you're going to take a dive through that door, you won't be getting support, assistance or participation from me."

"I told you, this is my world. I'm not suicidal -- but I may be crazy." Bree shrugged. "We'll know soon enough. I think the rock wants me to go north. It's the reason I started dreaming again. It's got a private agenda."

"That thing you said about no two-way communication . . ."

"If I could talk to the minerals." She pointed at him and giggled. "You've got the most expressive face, Fro. I didn't have a conversation with it. I didn't want to admit it, but I am being pushed, have been pushed for a long time. If it hadn't been necessary to leave the D.C. area, I might still be trying to ignore it. It makes me wonder who sent those people after me. The Rev -- or the rock."

"What does a rock want in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan?" Frohike muttered.

"I'm not sure we'll be in on the answer to that. We'll be across the bridge, and near the resort in another 40 minutes. Talk to me about something boring. Something ordinary. Tell me what it's like to have friends like Mulder, and those two you live with."

"You said something ordinary. For good or ill, ordinary is not part of my life with Byers and Langly." Frohike saw her smile. "They're my best friends. We kind of complement each other."

"You never told me if you have a lady in your life."

"Not right now." In the distance, Frohike could see a bit of the bridge poke above the treeline. His foot rested harder against the gas pedal. You can't cross bridges until you come to them, he thought vaguely. Ships that pass. Caught between a rock and a hard place. Water under the bridge, and maybe trolls.

"There's the bridge. Are you okay?" Bree pointed at the speedometer. "Ninety-five? Not to be a back-seat driver, but you don't want to get pulled over."

"Yeah." Frohike relaxed his tense leg. "Sorry. Thinking."

She gave him a look he'd seen before, but only on cat faces. Wide eyes, slow blink, half a yawn. _I'm not looking at you, you're not important . . ._ then something small and helpless would find itself pinned to the ground.

"What are you thinking?"

"About what I'm going to say to Mulder next time he wants to send me on a quest," Frohike said swiftly.

"That's an odd choice of words. Fox offered your services as something between bodyguard and chauffeur. He didn't know we'd be dealing direct with the land of shadows."

"Tinkerbell, Fox Mulder's reality _is_ the land of shadows." The bridge drew closer. "You know what I like most about the trilogy?"

"Shadowfax?" Bree's fingers trailed over the console between them, up the shift stick.

"Stop it. Yes, I like a fast ride. Yes, Shadowfax was cool." It wasn't fair. He didn't feel that much older than 27, except when he'd slept on a motel room floor. It was sobering to think he'd been having an almost identical conversation back in the early 70s with an impressionable young woman, probably just as Bree was learning to walk.

"Tolkien's heroes go into dark places, and they're afraid. They fail."

"Not in the end," Bree protested.

The Straits of Mackinaw opened before them, silver blue sheets of water falling away as the slope of the bridge took them higher. A lone freighter came toward the bridge from the west, looking like a Monopoly marker, or an oversized piece from a kid's Battleship game.

"In the end the shadows are defeated. But having brought his burden to the edge of Doom, Frodo can't go any farther. It's a moment that, while broadly foreshadowed by Gandalf, still dramatically proves the importance of choices. Gollum's intervention brings the quest to an end. Sometimes great wickedness can be brought low by little wickedness."

"And that's the best part of the story?" Bree shook her head.

Frohike watched the far shore approach. "It gives me hope. I have observed that heroes are few and far between in this life, and wickedness abounds. Sometimes I think that little wickedness will be the only thing that saves us, in the end."

That seemed to kill conversation for a while. Bree gave him concise directions after they paid the bridge toll, then turned her head away from him and stared at the flaking rock walls lining the road. Frohike found the exit in a few minutes, and left the freeway. Fifteen minutes later he parked the car in front of a log lodge with a view of Lake Michigan.

The first thing he noticed when he stepped out of the Chevy was the wind, blowing hard off the lake. It smelled like his childhood, Frohike thought, like pine resin baked by summer sun and washed by miles of fresh water.

Bree didn't stop to take in the view. She walked quickly to the lodge.

" . . . holiday weekend, you know. We've got one of the small cabins empty in back, though." Frohike came through the front door just in time to hear the woman behind the reservation desk answer Bree's obvious question.

"We'll take it. Two nights." Bree offered her hand to the woman. "I'm Jane Smith. This is my husband, Joe." She linked her arm into Frohike's, and gave him a kiss on the cheek. "Can we rent a boat, too?"

"No problem. I'll have one of my kids leave it on the beach. You have to pay a deposit, in case the oars or life preservers get lost."

Frohike paid the bill and signed _Joe Smith & little woman_ on the register. Bree hadn't waited for the paperwork. He found her outside on the lawn, staring at the water.

"Get in the car. We'll drive back and park at the cabin, then walk down to the beach if you want to." Frohike waited until she took her seat next to him. "You promise not to leave me hanging, to include me in whatever you have to do?"

"If I can." Her fingers rubbed at her temples, and she grimaced. "Headache. Let's hurry, before it gets worse."

They left everything in the car. Bree took one look at the exterior of the cabin, turned and walked back toward the water, bringing one portentous word to the forefront of Frohike's consciousness.

Lemming.

Water wasn't his best friend, but he could stay afloat. If it came down to it, and Bree needed rescuing, he wasn't sure he could save her. Frohike hurried to catch up.

"I said, don't leave me behind." He grabbed at her arm, and she slowed. Gravelled sand turned to beach sand underfoot, fine and yielding, filling his shoes after only a couple steps. "What's the plan here? What's the rush?"

Bree squinted against the light reflected off the water. "I want to get it over with. We're close."

"Close to what?"

"Out there."

The promised rowboat sat on the nearly empty beach. As far as Frohike could see, there were no other boats in their vicinity. Far up the beach, half hidden by tall wheat-colored grass, a large group splashed and picnicked. Their campfire scented the wind with burning driftwood and grilled meat. Frohike's mouth watered. Had Byers cleaned his grill, he wondered as he bent to remove his shoes.

"Let's go." Bree threw her shoes against his. She had rolled her jeans up to mid-calf.

They each grabbed a corner of the boat and slid it across the sand, into the water. Michigan water, cold even in July. Frohike stepped into the boat with goosebumps on his legs, the sun baking his head. All they needed were a few black flies to make the experience complete.

Bree took the oars. She rowed with smooth, deep strokes on an easterly diagonal line from the spot where they'd went in. Not too far out, Frohike was glad to see. The shore still seemed within an easy swim. She pointed at a striking group of boulders that began on dry land and jutted out into the water, like a miniature set of weathered Easter Island statues.

"Where dad went in. He was diving for rocks." Bree scooted to the bow seat. "Take the oars."

"Tell me exactly what you intend to do." Frohike moved to the center of the boat, steadying himself with the wooden handles.

Bree unzipped her jeans and wriggled out of them. "I'm going to try and get a look at the bottom. I will definitely resurface, so don't panic."

A look at the bottom. Don't panic. Frohike watched her long white legs and little white panties flash by as she dove cleanly off the boat. The boat jerked sideways as she pushed away, and Frohike slid against the oarlock, one side of the boat dipping perilously near the surface of the lake.

He leaned over the side and tried to see through the bronze-hued water. The bottom was visible as a mottled clay field of mosaic freeform design interspersed with the larger, darker shapes of submerged boulders. He couldn't see Bree. He took a deep breath and held it.

Seconds crawled by. He released the breath. "Come up, come up." Where the hell was she?

Bree surfaced with a gasp, looking like a river otter, dark hair slick around her skull. Her eyes seemed as brown as the water, smudged and huge under the wet straggle of bangs. She took a deep breath and dove again, into deeper water.

Frohike grabbed the oars and rowed toward the spot where she'd disappeared. If he followed her into the water with his glasses, he'd lose them for sure. If he took them off first, he'd be useless. Either way, he wouldn't be able to see well enough to find her under water. He could try and locate her by feel . . .

She broke the surface again, and the look on her face upped his panic index by a power of ten. There really was something wrong with her eyes, and she bared her teeth at him in what could have been a smile, or a snarl, just before she ducked back under.

Three quick pulls on the oars, and the shore was officially out of comfort range. Darker, deeper water obscured the bottom. He waited, watching for bubbles, watching for any sign of her.

Too long. It had been too long. Frohike emptied his pockets onto the floor of the boat, folded his glasses and placed them on top of his wallet. He dropped a life preserver over the side and took several deep breaths, filling his lungs to capacity. The boat bucked as he stood on the seat, seeming happy to throw him over the side. He went ungracefully into the cold water.

It took his breath away. He bobbed back up and grabbed the life preserver. People did this for recreation, Frohike reminded himself. He took another deep breath, held his nose, closed his eyes.

Something bumped against his leg. Reflexively Frohike reached down, going under as he tried to grab at the object. He got a fist full of cloth, then Bree surfaced next to him, face turned to the sky, eyes closed. Her arms moved slightly. She appeared to be trying to tread water.

"Bree. Hang in." Frohike pushed the life preserver between them. "We need to get to the boat."

Getting _to_ the boat wasn't a problem, Frohike discovered. With the preserver strapped around her chest Bree floated and kicked, and he guided them. Getting back _into_ the boat without capsizing it turned out to be a bitch.

"Don't worry about me," she whispered, after his eighth or ninth attempt boat boarding. "If you can get in, you can tow me."

"Don't think so." His teeth chattered, and his shirt felt like it was crawling around his belly under its own power. "Hang on to this side, as strongly as you can."

Frohike pulled himself around the boat to the opposite side. He took hold of the boat, felt the resistance of Bree's response, and pulled for all he was worth. A swell of water accompanied him as he flopped into the bottom, but the boat righted and he crouched, dripping, looking down at Bree.

"I don't mean to alarm you," she whispered, "but we have to get off the lake."

"Or?" Frohike reached down and pushed her around in the water so her back was to the boat. He hooked his hands under her arms and pulled. She was a lot heavier than she looked.

"I can't be specific. But if you're attached to the here and now, we need to be out of here now." Bree slid into the boat, bringing a lot of water with her.

"Shit." It came from his heart. Frohike ignored the pain in his side, probable rupture of something vital from lifting Bree. He found and replaced his glasses. Turning away from the wet lime green t-shirt and starkly defined nipples, Frohike grabbed the oars and rowed as hard as he could toward shore.


	7. Chapter 7

**WASHINGTON, D.C. - 1:30 P.M.**

From attic crawl-space, through the sanctuary and tiny office behind the baptismal font, inside the baptismal tank itself, Mulder had inched his way around the chapel. He took his time on the stairway leading to the basement. Rorschach-like blotches on water-stained drywall held his attention, as did the graffiti near the furnace. _For a good time, call --_ The phone number was illegible, but Mulder spent several minutes trying to read it.

He'd left the rock floor and foundation for last. As he had done the first time he'd examined the basement, Mulder sat down in the middle of the black stone and simply looked around. Loops of old electrical wiring hung from the naked beams that braced the sanctuary floor above. The ancient mortar between the fieldstones in the foundation looked discolored and crumbling. Especially around one large brown stone. Mulder got up and went to take a closer look, wiping a finger through a trail of residue on the floor. He peered closer at the edge of the rock.

In his pocket, the phone began to buzz.

"Yello."

"Abernethy is dead. He didn't wake up after surgery." Skinner didn't sound too unhappy. "You'd never guess what they found in his stomach and intestines."

"I'm guessing lots of roughage. Rocks?" The rock had been carefully chipped away along the edge, from top to bottom. Mulder could see a couple of larger chunks gone near the bottom, where the pile of dirt had caught his eye.

"How do you know this stuff? The doctor said there's this disease --"

"Pica. He was eating his rock. Bree tried to tell us he was adding something to the communion mix, and her food." Mulder dipped his finger in the dust then stuck it in his mouth. No surprise, it tasted like dirt. "I'll do a little door to door, and see how the neighbors feel about Abernethy now that he's dead -- as a rock."

Skinner ignored the joke. "Can you reach Ms. Webster and Frohike? She should be safe now, right?"

"Probably. The newspapers will get the story, and Frohike will see it. He'll call me." Something rumbled under his feet. Truck passing outside? Mulder touched the edge of the rock, and jerked his hand back. It was hot. "Ah, Skinner . . . I'm in the chapel basement, and something is going on here."

"What now?"

The chapel shook around him. Dust fell and the structure above his head creaked alarmingly. As Mulder watched, the brown stone flushed with color until it was iron-red. Heat radiated off it, enough to make him uncomfortable as he backed toward the stairway.

"It's the rock. I think it's getting ready to roll." Mulder took the stairs two at a time. There was a loud crack, and half the foundation fell onto the spot where he had been standing moments before.

"You really piss me off sometimes, Mulder. Can't you just tell me what's going on?"

"Better call 911. The chapel's coming down." Pieces of ceiling plaster fell on him as he ran through the sanctuary, slipping on the wooden flooring that heaved under his feet. Mulder made it out the door, and onto the lawn as two of the outer walls broke and caved inward. The ground shook as if some giant Jules Verne tunneling contraption idled nearby.

Smoke curled above the teetering building, then flames burst out, on the side near the furnace, Mulder thought. When the porch began to buck, and chunks of sod around the foundation began to buckle, Mulder left the lawn and went to stand by his car. It was a smart move. The rest of the building exploded, and a glowing meteor launched into the sky, taking a good portion of the lawn several hundred feet into the air.

Mulder found himself plastered against the side of the car. He grabbed the handle and opened the door, sliding inside just as a rain of dirt, wood and stone pelted down with enough force to dent his hood and crack his windshield. Faraway he heard a voice, and realized he'd dropped the phone.

"Mulder? You okay?" Skinner was asking.

"I'm okay. The chapel won't recover, though. Abernethy's rock just left the building . . . and where ever it's going, it's going fast."

 

 **LAKE MICHIGAN, 2 P.M.**

"We need to pull it up as far as we can. Away from the water."

Together they slid the boat up the beach a good 20 feet before Bree let go and sat down in a heap on the sand.

"You all right?" Frohike retrieved Bree's jeans from the boat, and came to sit beside her. "You look cold. I could never swim in Lake Michigan."

"Thanks." Her arms were puckered with gooseflesh. "I panicked. We've got lots of time. Let's go up to the cabin and shower, and find dry clothes.

"What are we watching for?" His own clothes lay against his skin with an unpleasant chill. When he looked down, Frohike realized his nipples were sticking out almost as far as hers.

Bree pulled her jeans on. "I saw the doorway, down there where dad found it. Funny thing is, it looked familiar."

"What did it look like?"

She pushed the hair from her face, spraying him with cold, wet drops. "Like a big, brown rock."

 

Frohike unloaded the car while she showered, then took his turn standing under the gloriously hot water. The first words she said when he stepped out of the bathroom were, "I'm hungry, but I don't know if we've got time to find food."

"Back to normal. Are you going to tell me what you're waiting for?" There were a couple of candy bars left. Frohike found them and gave her the largest. Bree unwrapped it and stuffed half into her mouth, grabbed his arm and pulled him out of the cabin.

"Beach," she said, around a mouthful of chocolate. "Tell you there."

They sat tightly side by side, with a view of the lake and the group of standing stones. Before half his candy bar was gone, Bree took it from his hand and helped herself to a large bite.

"Piglet." Frohike ate the rest quickly. "Swallow, then talk."

She bumped her elbow against his ribs and rubbed her head against his shoulder. "I think there are doors everywhere, Fro. People, and some animals, can crack them with will and desire, but it takes an exceptional mind to open one far enough to actually step through. If you couldn't do it with your mind, and went looking for a prefab doorway, natural objects would be a good place to start. Things like mountains, glaciers and lakes have linear continuity. The exist long enough to provide a series of anchor points in time and space. Old forests, caves, oceans . . . all kinds of trap doors, dumbwaiters and revolving climate-friendly entry points are there if you know where to look."

"The one your father found was a rock? Is it a coincidence?"

"Yes, and no. When I first glimpsed the rock in the chapel basement, I believed it was so alien and apart that no interaction could occur. I think now it saw something in me it had been waiting for. A seven-year-old girl's fragmented memory of the moment she'd seen a missing piece of itself."

"This rock is under water. You said you were on the shore when your father disappeared."

"They pulled me out. I never admitted to remembering, but I tried to swim after him, to make him come back." Her fingers sought and found his. "The chapel rock, and the one out there, are more than rock. They're pieces of a door, separated somehow, and they want to reunite. The one in D.C. is stronger. It sent me to get a good fix on its other half. It used my eyes out there." Bree shivered. "I didn't like it."

"What good does it do? Two rocks, in different states, separated by hundreds of miles." There was no way he'd be able to write this up for the paper, Frohike thought. If he kept his journalistic aloofness intact, Bree would come off sounding like a lunatic.

Who was he kidding. His aloofness had already been compromised.

"This should compensate for missed fireworks." Bree pointed upward.

It wasn't everyday he saw a ball of fire that whistled as it fell. Frohike shaded his eyes with his hand. It fell toward the spot off the end of the stones, hit the water with a concussive sound that shook the ground and sent a cloud of steam into the air. Lake water rose, an economy-sized tsunami that hit the shore and filled their rowboat with water, then subsided into hissing breakers.

"Together again," Bree said. "I think you should call Mulder. And let's find dinner before the TV crews get here."


	8. Chapter 8

**SATURDAY, 6 P.M.**

"You want to know what my favorite part of the trilogy is?" Bree licked chocolate from her lips. She had an old fuzzy blue blanket on her lap, and she'd changed into a sweatshirt the color of raspberries.

They sat on the floor near the wood stove, feeding bits of driftwood into the fire, drinking hot chocolate that they'd bought in the lodge store. From hot to cold and back again, Frohike thought with a fleeting image of Byers and Langly sweating in D.C. He felt a surge of nostalgia for Michigan summers past.

"Eowyn's masquerade? Her battle with the Black Rider?" It was a wild guess.

"Those are good. But my favorite part is when Aragorn and Arwen wed. Decades of unresolved sexual tension handled with the delicacy of a poet. I don't remember the exact language, but it was something like -- _he took her hand in his, and together they went up into the High City. And all the stars flowered._ " She set her cup aside and reached for his hand. "When I first read that I was about 12. It made me feel gooshy inside, to think about why the stars flowered."

Her fingers were warm and strong. Frohike took a deep breath and pulled her in under his arm. She nestled there, with her head on his chest. "Mulder says now that Abernethy is dead, everybody in your old neighborhood is back to normal. The FBI doesn't need you any longer, so the relocation deal is off. What will you do?"

"Work hard. It will take me longer, but someday I'll have my bookstore. Maybe I'll even sing for my supper." She tipped her head up to look at him, and ran her free hand through her hair. "Hey, Fro. I'm hungry."

Frohike groaned. "I think you've eaten everything we bought. The nearest drive-thru is probably at least . . ."

Bree took her fingers from his hand and covered his mouth with them. The corners of her lips and eyes quirked into a decidedly feline smile. "Wrong page. I know it wasn't high poetry."

What was the opposite of gooshy? Frohike had a good idea. He reclaimed her fingers and touched them to his lips. "Despite the difference in our ages, you're an adult. If you say there are stars out tonight . . ."

It was a good kiss. When it ended Bree was sitting on his lap, nuzzling his ear.

"Early to bed, early to rise," she whispered. "Do you need help getting off the floor, pops?"

"Probably." Frohike laughed, and tightened his arms around her. She was so slight, yet the hip his hand covered was sweetly curved. "Book girl. Cat girl. Pain in my ass girl."

She braced her arms against his chest and stood, offering him her hand. "Like I said, not high poetry."

"Maybe not." Frohike took her hand and made it off the floor without grunting. He jotted a mental note to send Mulder a thank you card, and tasteful selection from his video library when they got back.

The bed was wedged against two log walls. It looked small and cozy. Bree's clothes went flying. She looked at him, winked and stretched. "What are you thinking about?"

"Poetry. Reality. The place where the two conjoin."

"No way. You want help with that zipper?"

"Sure." Her hair was soft under his chin. "It's true. I was. You remind me of a poem."

His pants fell away.

"Tell me," she demanded, her tongue tracing cursive letters over his arm, up his neck.

Frohike's mind suspended the moment, freezing his tongue along with any stray rational thought. "Flowers are easy," he managed to say.

"Excuse me?" Bree pushed away, and slapped his shoulder lightly.

"No. Now you're on the wrong page." He dropped his glasses on the bedside stand and pulled her down onto the bed. " _The flowers are easy to paint,_ " he said, working at his own oral calligraphy. " _The leaves difficult._ "

"Oh Fro," Bree said, breathlessly. "I like that. I like that a lot."


End file.
